By: Krutika Puranik
We are all pieces of what’s left of our parents. Your mother’s eyes, father’s ears, an aunt’s height. I often sit amidst my family and wonder if they see themselves in me. The way I slip a strand of hair discreetly behind my ear, the way my eyes turn into the colour of rich honey in sunlight, my boisterous laughter and the way in which the corners of my mouth curls into an upward arch every time I curb an urge to join the debate. I see my father in my brother’s manners. I see my aunt speak and often wonder how it is that I am fortunate enough to have the courage that she does. I see my mother and see traces of my grandfather in her face. The same nose, crooked and long. Their obsession with time and having to be the first one to arrive at any event. I also see specks of my grandmother’s docility in the way in which my mother guards her relationships. The silence with which she admits her fate without protesting against it.
Even as I write this down, I feel my veins pulsing with the same blood that my parents carry. I guess this is what it feels like to have them close to our hearts even if we are miles away from home.
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