It hangs on the wall opposite my bed - a photograph of my grandpa and me. I am laughing while my grandpa's safe hands are holding me tightly to his chest. Is it only a loving memory? If so, why do I feel grandpa's presence mingled with the world around me?
My grandpa and I had walked together a long way. He was there to guide me, to teach me, to protect me. One dark evening, he embarked on a new journey, a journey to the unknown. The rest of his family was bereft, I was left behind. Then life continued in its own rhythm. The tide splashed on the shore, the stars twinkled in the same vast sky. I carried on with my studies, songs and friends. I have passed two years of my life without the shadow of the sturdy tree. Storms have struck, but I have pulled through.
In my hectic days, grandpa is only a memory, encased within the frames of the picture, lifeless in this buoyant life of ours.
There he is sitting, drowsiness sweeping over his serene aristocratic face - only to be aroused in times of my restlessness and solitude. When silence rules over me, I can hear grandpa's story of the fisherman and the genie. When I am stuck with a mathematical problem, grandpa in the picture guides me to the solution. When I mistreat the distressed, the almond-shaped eyes of my grandpa seem humiliated. Whenever I play the harmonium, he seems to sit in the sofa in front. He listens to my songs quietly and then as I look up, he vanishes in thin air. As I lie on my bed at night, sleepless worrying about my future, sparks in his watery eyes begin to float in front of my eyes.