19 forever, she’s alive, frozen in my memory
It was April 1975, I was 11 and she was 5. Wearing a tidy uniform, she accompanied me to school. Two pert ponytails, a beautiful face, shining black shoes. She looked like an angel sent by God. During recess, I went to meet her, and she pestered me to get her ‘imli’ from the school canteen. I bought her ‘Poppins’ instead. In return, she gave me a broad smile of gratitude.
Year 1978, I was 14 and she was 8. It was the year when I along with my elder sister began to enjoy outdoor games and learnt to ride a cycle. She too tried her hand at it, and threw a tantrum, howling and screaming that she being the youngest one was always bullied. Her tiny and tender face looked pale and worn out.
Year 1979, as I appeared in the Class X Board exams, I anxiously awaited news of her well-being as she fought a grave illness at PGI, Chandigarh. Fighting bravely, she defeated the disease and was back home, too fragile to walk without support. My parents celebrated her rebirth. And she was the centre of attraction wooing everybody with her infectious smile and funny antics.
Year 1987, I joined my job in Yamunanagar and she sought admission in college. Those were the days when she fell in love with life; singing, dancing, and getting decked up in trendy jewellery. She took part in various dance competitions and won heaps of appreciation and applause. We both sat, and watched TV before finally dozing off, hugging each other, as she talked of reaching for the stars. Year 1988, me 24 and she 18, bubbling with electrifying energy. It was the year when she bared all her secrets and regrets to me. Her love for her friend Jessica, her unconditional affection for my elder sister’s toddler Amber, who una- ble to say ‘Ashima’, called her ‘Anna’. Carefreely and happily, she sang ‘Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep’, hardly foreseeing the disease that would devour her.
Then came 1989, me 25 and she 19. It was the year when my parents started looking for a suitable match for me. She would often say, “Didi gone, now your turn”.
It was 1990, me 26, married, and she on the threshold of 20 when she fell prey to a serious illness, which came back with vengeance. She celebrated my first Lohri after marriage, distributing sweets from her hospital bed. Soon she was no more, disappearing without a hug or wave of hand. The youngest one, gone first.
Life, as I knew it, irrevocably changed the night she left us. My parents became old overnight. How truly Robert Frost, the American poet, had observed, ‘In three words I can sum up everything I have learnt about life.
It goes on.’ Same year I tasted bliss when I became mother of a son, but the sheen of celebration would have been brighter had she been there. As I write this piece, I can see her asking me, “Didi, do you still remember me?”
Year 2017. Me in early fifties and she still 19. That is what death does. It changes lives while keeping the memories intact. She is alive, frozen in my memory forever.