हमको हमारे संस्कारों से जोड़ने वाली कड़ी टूट गई । दादी जी के हाथ में जो हमारी डोर थी,हमेशा के लिए छूट गयी 😭😭😥😥

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All of your unsaid words & story,
I can still hear you in silence.

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I miss you a bit more than I used to miss you,
When I see wrinkles tell stories,
I wish I could hear yours too!
When I smell the aroma of good food,
It reminds me of you,
Hunger hasn't taught me too much lessons
as tasty food did,
In the deliciousness of food
I search for your love,
In the quest of you,
I remain, avva!

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#यादें
आंखे बंद करते ही कानो में आवाज़ गूंजती हैं
सिर को ममता भरे हाथो का स्पर्श होता हैं
रूह तड़प उठती की बस थोड़ी देर और,
तभी अचानक सबकुछ धुंधला आंखे रो पड़ती हैं

अब हमारा उनसे मिलना
कुछ ऐसे ही होता हैं
कभी सब पूरा होता हैं,
कभी अधूरा होता हैं।

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जिंदगी जीने के सलीके वो मुझे सिखाती थी,
वो मेरी दादी माँ थी,जो माँ से भी ज्यादा मुझ पर अपना प्यार लुटाती थी अब तुझे कैसे भुलु क्या अब यही तक आपका मेरे साथ था

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I'm not perfect but if you are with me,
“PERFECT” would be a small
word to define me.

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थी चेहरों पर झुरियां,करती थी इबादत तस्बीह-दानों से,
वह बनाती थी कांपते हाथों से खाना,बावर्ची-ख़ानों में !!


تھی چہرہں پر جھریاں,کرتی تھی عبادت تسبیح دانوں سے..
وہ بناتی تھی کانپتے ہاتھوں سے کھانا,باورچی خانوں میں !!

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Before you complain of how brutally shattered you are by your heartbreak, how acute is your loss of love, think of your 80-year-old grandmother living alone in the ancestral house in Patna, stumbling upon the garlanded picture of her late husband every now and then. When was the last time you saw her shedding tears mourning her 20-year-old love-loss, when grandfather gave in to cancer at merely 65?

Her tears won't be found on pillows. Her poetry won't be found in diaries. She had just one day to express all her sorrow in public, that funeral from 20 years ago. The grief is now held deep within, never to be revealed to any of us. Love is a private affair for her, the tsunami of heartaches is a personal calamity that she braves alone. Even the doctor doesn't know if the water that flows out of her eyes at night is because of cataract or pain. Think of her and you'll figure why she is called a grandmother and why you (with your ephemeral wound) will always remain a little kid.

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It is common knowledge that women and sewing go hand in hand, especially from the previous generations. Both my grandmothers excelled in the art of sewing. My maternal grandmother, whom we fondly called Arectama, or another mother, sewed the most amazing curtains and fancy pillow cases. While my paternal grandmother, or Thakurma, as we called her mostly sewed pyjamas, frocks, and gowns for her large and growing joint family she was quite adept at making curtains and pillow cases too. Most afternoons of my school vacation that I spent at either grandmother's house, was consumed by the whirring sound of the sewing machine. I can still hear the whirring sound as the wheel went round and round until the bobbin was full. Oh yes, and I think Arectama had an Usha while Thakurma had a Singer. Or was it the other way?

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