Old writings

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Reading your own old writings could be so relaxing. It’s like you’re having a conversation with yourself.

**As I come out of the shower, I see my granny sitting outside and actually enjoying the hot air specially after a cold Indian night, knitting a purple sweater, probably to gift someone. The way her wet shiny white hair form a coordination with one another, letting the fresh air dry it. The way she knits without her spectacles on. The way that Purple coloured something seems to be forming a new big shape every two minutes, having started from just a woolen thread and now turning into a cloth. A cloth that’ll provide someone with warmth and her love in cold, inspires me. Despite everything.**

I read this prose as I go through my old writings. Automatically, my mind compared my granny back then and now. I miss her. She’s been one strong pillar in our lives, my life. I recall the times when she stood by me in the same bedroom when I studied for 10th grade board exams, how she explained to me the importance of being prompt and dedicated to your work, just as she had been, I thought in mind.
Age changes a person. A person grows. It’s growth and at times, it scares me because I think the time should stop and growth should procrastinate itself. A strong pillar as she is, I am in real sense blessed to have met her; being related by blood has only been a reason or coincidence.

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