She just sit’s there in the mahogany lounge with her lowbrow and indirect gaze.
Her radiant skin representing Pakhtun and Multani beauty. Her smile, a live ‘Mona Lisa’.
The way your mouth would linger the letters of her name would make you think as if you possess her physically and mentally, both. The pronunciation would make you breathe ‘better’ in a peculiar way. There is the interlocking of the lips
that makes ‘Amm’ and then the sudden break of ‘aa’, making “Amma”. A matriarch. Trully! There’s more !
My grandmother. My fathers mother. My mothers mother-in-law. She is my grandmother. I have the complete authority of loving her.
Within an aged body there lives a naughty girl. A girl with absolute freedom. Whenever she returns back from her mundane walk from Jinnah Park, you can hear the squelch of her jogging shoes up the stairs. The sound would make you sleepy and stretching. Not a great cook. But a great book ; metaphorically, as in keeping memories. Her dark brown hair so perfectly dyed that not a single gray would appear.
A woman of substance is what she is. Everybody knows her somewhere. The way she smiles makes her lips look like two pink slits. Especially when seen from the left side of her face. Glasses ? Oh yes. She wears two . One for reading and one for watching television.
Why she doesn’t wear glasses regularly is because she is sad of seeing her life pass by . Her heart has this burning sensation. She feels depressed whenever somebody flatters her by saying “I wish you live upto 100”. She is afraid of living older. For her, “80” is preferable . The way she asks me rhetoric questions makes my mind go swell. Questions such as “what would you do when I die ?” It sounded more like a statement than a question . “Won’t you feel lonely without me ?” -It was so. I would feel lonely and angry.
“Good times, Bad times ”
Once I remember her dressing herself for a party. She wore a black dress with a glittering shawl on top. Whenever she harvested the red lipstick onto her lips, she would make this shape with her lips- ” O”. It looked as if she was pronouncing the name of the color ‘mouve’. Her breasts bulged a bit including her protruding hips.
In a way, her hips and breasts were parallel and opposite to each other. In the black dress nothing shapely could be revealed . But, really she had a ponch of a stomach .
On usual days, the smell of her Spanish perfume “Rosa Botanica ” would waft into the air . One day I remember her coming back from a walk and her eyes glinting.
I could see salty drops of sweat on her cushiony neck . The stink of her sweat ,covered up with the rose scented perfume. I distinctly remember the arthritis she has on her feet . Due to the arthritis, her feet looked like two deformed cheeks.
It made me love her more.
The haggardness of her face showed true grit and true maturity.
Her language, a rare one. The language spoken by the mountains of Punjab.
What made her more pure was that she was not born in the city but, in far ,secluded village.
In the end: I say she was the beauty , the substance, the grace, the maturity, the evidence, the girlfriend, the grandmother.