My earliest memory of these idols is waking up to pitaji, my paternal grandfather praying to them every morning. The sound of his voice while he tended to these idols was so emotional and loving, that it haunts me till date. Almost as though it was a very private and sacred conversation between them.
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.
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.
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