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Her innocent question hung in the air, and for a moment, the adults exchanged glances, unsure how to respond. It was Ravi who spoke next, his voice thick with emotion.
“I miss her too, Rhea,” he said, his eyes fixed on the chair. “But Nani wouldn’t want us to be sad. She’d want us to be happy, to laugh, and to remember all the good times we shared with her.”
His words seemed to lift the weight that had settled over the table. Slowly, the conversation began to flow again, stories and memories bubbling to the surface as each family member shared their favourite moments with Nani.
Meena spoke of the nights they had spent talking late into the evening, her mother’s wisdom guiding her through the challenges of raising her own children. Ravi recounted the summers he had spent at Nani’s house as a boy, exploring the garden while she watched over him, her laughter filling the air. Even the younger grandchildren, who had only known Nani in her later years, had stories to tell—of the sweets she would sneak them when their parents weren’t looking, of the way she would hum old songs as she knitted in her favorite chair.
“She used to sing that old song, remember?” Ravi asked, a smile tugging at his lips. “That one about the moon and the stars? She said it was a lullaby her mother sang to her when she was little.”
Everyone nodded, the melody faintly playing in their memories. Even those who hadn’t heard the song firsthand could feel its presence, like a thread woven through generations, connecting them all.
As the evening wore on, the sadness that had initially filled the room began to ebb, replaced by a warmth that seemed to radiate from the stories they shared. The empty chair, once a stark reminder of loss, now felt less like a void and more like a tribute, a symbol of the love that had connected them all.
Towards the end of the evening, after the last dish had been cleared and the laughter had quieted to a soft murmur, Meena found herself standing by the empty chair once more. She ran her fingers along its edges, feeling the grooves in the wood, worn smooth by years of use. Her heart ached, but it also felt full—full of the love that Nani had left behind, the love that would continue to bind their family together, even in her absence.
As she gazed at the chair, Meena remembered one of the last things her mother had said to her: “Don’t be sad when I’m gone, beta. Just remember that love doesn’t disappear. It changes, like the seasons, but it’s always there.”
By the end of the night, as the family cleared the table and said their goodbyes, Meena stood in the dining room, the soft light casting long shadows. She glanced at the chair one last time, her heart swelling with a mixture of grief and gratitude. Nani’s presence was still there, not in the physical sense, but in the laughter, the stories, the love that had filled the room.
Meena turned off the light in the dining room and walked away, leaving the chair where it had always been, waiting, as if Nani herself might return to sit in it once more.
But in a way, she thought, she already had.
Rajat chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
25/10/2024
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