Nana

by Britney Pereira

Let us never know what old age is. Let us know the happiness time brings, not count the years. – Ausionus 

“Sleep,” my grandmother said, “sleep.” 

          Back then, I never knew how much I would come to value those slothful summer afternoons with her, struggling to keep my eyelids open, entranced as she gently patted me on the back, forcing me into a deep sleep. One I was usually jolted awake from. 

          I spent most of that sweltering summer in my grandmother’s sixth floor apartment; one can imagine the heat. I remember she had a sizeable red tub in her bathroom that I would jump into after a shower, indulging in the relief the ice cold water had to offer. I would stay until I was forced out by her clamor. My grandmother would proceed to drown me in coconut oil. She abhorred dry skin and I abhorred the oil. I remember watching her with an impatient irritation as her wrinkled hands went over my pruned fingers, vigorously massaging the oil into my skin. Come to think of it, I have never touched coconut oil since, and probably never will. Its scent,however, pleases me, not for the oil’s own properties but for the memories it brings back, taking me back to a simpler time. 

          I loved how she would let me mix her hair dye until it was the right shade of brown. I would mix ever so slowly until a smooth, velvety mixture formed. She would brush it over her hair, parting it as she went along. Her hair looked whiter every time I would visit her, the brown slowly fading out. Her hair in a messy bun, wearing her infamous red shalwar kameez, she would set out to do the dishes (something she enjoyed immensely—she said the running water calmed her) while I had my eyes glued to whatever Cartoon Network had to offer at the time. The clatter of the dishes had a calming effect of their own. Knowing she was there regardless of me needing her made me feel secure, and so did the evenings we shared together: she would make us tea and we would sit in the balcony and look down at the congested traffic Saddar is infamous for. 

          “Mark my words, they can’t touch Musharraf, not with the army behind him. He looked so handsome on the television, didn’t he?” 

          Dumbfounded by her unabashed admiration for the president, I would nod quietly and sip my tea as she went on about the abysmal state of things, taking a cigarette out of the pack of Pine she had just bought.  

          “When you grow older, make sure you do something for your country. If not for Karachi, better yet just run off to Canada. It’s safe there… did I tell you about that time I went to Moscow? It was beau-” she stopped midway coughing, a cough that would be a facet of my memory of the time I spent with her. She would then gabble in Konkani, a language she taught my mother. A language that I, nor my sisters would ever learn, regretfully. Every evening went so routinely, I never had the courage to stop her or tell her we had already talked about this. She seemed so content about the subject of our one-sided conversation it seemed unfair to take that away from her.   

          Now that I am older, I take a more active part in the conversations we hold. We talk about God and how he gave up his only son to save mankind from their own sins. We talk about how awful the country has become under the current government. We talk about her new Samsung Galaxy phone and how horrid she thinks the touch system is. More importantly, we talk about Pervaiz Musharraf and the army’s undying support for him. She is as thrilled talking about him now as she was before.  

          I make her tea now, cautious while handing it to her. Her vigour has withered with time. Her hands are smaller now, blotched and veiny, twisted from the trials they have faced. I light her cigarette for her, remorseful handing it to her. Given everything I have been taught, and all the times I have tried, I have come to realize she needs it more than she wants it. As long as it comforts her, I maintain my silence. 

          She sits in the balcony while I do the dishes. I sit beside her after I am done, and we both look on at the traffic that plagues the streets of Saddar.

Britney Pereira is a 19-year-old ambivert and former A level student taking a gap year, eager to make a career out of writing. She also works on her Instagram when she isn’t eating or procrastinating.

visual by ahad ali.