Now several years after the death of my grandfather, his medals continue to live in a rectangular wooden box in my grandmother’s house.
She gingerly opened the cover and pressed those keys with a glee that hadn’t graced her face for years. There had been nothing or so little to look forward to for all these long years.
As an adult, I often visited my mother on the weekends and every time she saw me without surma, she applied it immediately and always in a typical and familiar manner.
Although she had never worn them till recently, due to self-imposed inhibition, when she did finally put them on- gingerly and hesitantly- they looked beautiful on her feet!
I’m going back in time to experience and be consumed by the events that don’t belong to me, but to my ancestors- all because of six yards of fabric.