The Bestowing

The old woman sits, stooped and wizened on a small wooden stool at the front door of her cottage.  The skin at her throat sags and droops, as if two sizes too big for her.  Her gnarled fingers trace shapes in the air and her lips move in their silent dance, forming words that will never be spoken.  She beckons to me, chuckling knowingly, and my feet hasten to her command.

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Chasing Away Shadows

Oil lamp ©Asha Rajan

~ Deepam. Deepam. ~

My childhood Summers were spent mostly at my maternal grandmother’s home in Kerala. My Ammamma, my Mothermother, was brilliant, a self-educated soul who read without discrimination. Sharp-witted, insightful, funny, and loving, with little interest in cooking. She would delight in things of beauty, and my mother would secret away small presents that would thrill her. When Ammamma died, we found an almirah full of Avon hand-painted soaps with beautiful flowers on them. She had squirrelled them away, considering them too precious to ever use.

~ Deepam. Deepam. ~

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