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Contd From Part I

He hadn’t realised at the time that it would be their last talk. Now, standing here in her absence, her words felt heavier, their meaning more profound. He walked over to the chair, resting his hand lightly on its back, the wood smooth and cool under his palm. For a moment, he let himself imagine she was still there, her soft voice calling him “beta,” her eyes full of understanding that needed no words. But reality tugged him back. She was gone, and the chair was only a reminder of what was missing.

At the other end of the room, Meena, Nani’s youngest daughter, was busy in the kitchen, her hands moving with practised ease as she prepared the dishes her mother had once made with love. Every ingredient, every spice she added brought with it a memory—Nani’s hands guiding hers as a young girl, teaching her the secret to the perfect biryani, the way to fold the dough for samosas just right. She had always been Nani’s shadow in the kitchen, learning not just recipes but the unspoken language of family that food could convey.

As Meena stirred the pot of curry, her thoughts drifted back to the last meal she had cooked with her mother. It had been a quiet afternoon, just the two of them in the kitchen, the soft clinking of utensils the only sound. Nani had been frail then, her movements slow, but her mind sharp as ever. She had insisted on supervising, even though her hands could no longer chop or stir with the same energy.

“Food is love, beta,” Nani had said, her voice soft but sure. “When you cook for your family, you are giving them a piece of your heart.”

Meena wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, brushing away the tears before anyone could see. She didn’t want to cry today. Today was about remembering, celebrating, and honouring the legacy her mother had left behind.

As she finished preparing the dishes, Meena caught her reflection in the kitchen window and saw her mother’s features on her own. She remembered how Nani used to stand there, watching the world outside, her thoughts distant but always returning to her family. The reflection, now hers, made her pause for a moment—was she living up to the love, patience, and wisdom Nani had shown?

The sound of laughter pulled her back to the present as the family gathered around the table. One by one, they took their seats, a mix of old and new generations, each with their own stories, memories, and hopes. Yet, despite the bustle of conversation, there was an unspoken acknowledgement of the empty chair, standing quietly at the head of the table. It wasn’t just a chair anymore; it had become a symbol, a reminder of the glue that held them together, even in her absence.

For a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence, as if no one knew how to begin without Nani’s familiar presence to guide them. Then, softly, it was little Rhea, the youngest of the grandchildren, who broke the silence.

“Why is Nani’s chair empty?” she asked, her wide eyes looking up at her mother, Priya.

Priya smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair from Rhea’s face. “Nani isn’t with us anymore, beta, but we keep her chair here because she’s still with us in our hearts.”

Rhea frowned, her small brow furrowed in confusion. “But I miss her. Can’t she come back, just for tonight?”( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat Chandra Sarmah 

Guwahati , Assam , India 

23/10/2024