It was a stormy day. It rained heavily. I was with my daughter, Diya in the living room. I was in my wheel chair. I couldn’t move but I could talk. I was weak, sullen and life less. I was trembling and shivering until Diya laid a blanket on me. Diya was my only daughter and the light of my life. She took care of me carefully. I was an old woman; God knows weather I’ll survive the next moment or not.
“Ma, are you fine?” My daughter asked.
“Yes, my child.” I said. She knelt down to me and massaged my legs.
“It’s such a stormy day Ma. Do you want something Hot?”
“I’m fine Diya; I just need you in my life, nothing more.”
“I’ll be there for you anytime and anyplace, Ma. I Promise.”
She may not leave me, but I can leave her at the moment. I am forced to. What on earth a 55 year would do? God Almighty knows when I’ll die and get rid of this tumor.
“Ma, are you feeling good? Because I’m really worried about you” tears filled in her eyes as she said.
“I’m feeling really good being with you. You’ll be fine without me-” I said.
“No Ma! Don’t say that. Don’t leave me. Promise me that! “She raised her palm in front of me.
“No Diya. I can’t do this. I can’t help it dear. It’s not up to me”
“I know that Ma” She said soberly.
The light of my life, Diya. How could I lighten her up at this moment?
“Diya, would you mind coming with me to the study? “ I asked.
“I wouldn’t mind that. Come I’ll take you there” She said and took the handle of the wheel chair and bought me to the study.
The dusty old study. A rusty bookshelf. A dusty table with a grandfather chair. Where all the sweet memories were preserved in the bookshelf.
I was in the greatest and most beloved person’s room, Krishnan Murthy. He had left a few memories in this room. He died due to cancer.
“Diya dear, I’ll show you the story of my life today. Get me that fat brown book will you?” I asked her pointing at the book shelf.
“Of course, Ma.” Diya replied and she took the old book out of the shelf. She handed it to me. I dusted and wiped the book. Now it was a blue book.
“What book is this Ma?”
“It’s my diary.”
“Wow. When did you start writing it?”
“From the age of 13.”
“Wow. That must be a lot of pages then. You still write in it?”
“Yes. Sometimes. I used to not write very punctually. But I had kept this diary since 12 and then started writing from 13 years of age.”
“Oh. Okay so, tell me about your life.”
I opened the first page. There were so many black and white pictures. I was reliving those moments.
“Look at me in my uniform” I said.
“That is so divine, Ma. They look perfect on you. So you used to wear those clothes to school?”
“They were very old. Now it’s modern”
“I know things have changed a lot.”
I flipped those pages. What memories were they! All old letters from my father in army. Everything was saved in that diary.
It all started, when I was born to an army family. My mother served the injured in the hospital and my father fought for the nation. By the age of 4, I was put in Army school. I grew up as a sensitive little girl. We used to have a mansion in which every member of our family lived. I used to sleep with god, in the pooja room (prayer room). Then grandfather died and we moved to a city.
I was 12 by then. I got the diary as a present that time. Days passed and I started writing in my diary. Then I got a locket chain as a present for my 13th birthday. I still have it around my neck. Then I stored every personal thing in my diary. Almost everything was stored in that diary. The diary was merely my best friend.
By the age of 17, we moved to a new place. It was very peaceful there. I used to sit under a tree and write in my diary. I believed the tree was also a secret keeper so; I used to tell the tree and my diary stories. I still think the tree lives. Days passed. Weeks passed. Months passed and finally years passed.
By the age of 34 I was married to Krishnan Murthy, a person I loved and knew. He was greater than anyone. Unfortunately, He died 2 years ago. He still lives in my heart.
Now I have tumor. It is still paining and growing bigger in my head. Doctors say I can die anytime in the wheel chair.
“Ma I’ll get you something to drink” Diya said and left.
I wrote a few words to Diya and slept. I slept forever. I couldn’t get up. I was in my death chair. By the time Diya came, I was dead. But I slept happily after reliving those old moments.
I wrote a letter to my beloved daughter before dying –
It is not in my hands to die. Don’t worry, you can live without me. Don’t cry dear. It is no use crying over spilt milk. Live life at your own joy. Love, Life and peace are all you need. I’ll guide you from above as an angel. I have left you everything that you need.
Take care Diy-
And then I died before writing her name.