Lakshmi lay still, her body fragile against the white pillows. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling.
"I'm just a body waiting to stop breathing," she whispered.
I pulled my chair closer. "That sounds lonely."
"It is," she said.
"Everything that made me who I am is gone. I was a pianist. My hands…" Her fingers trembled on the blanket, searching for keys that weren't there.
"Now I can't even hold a spoon."
"What did playing give you?" I asked.
She paused. "A way to say what words couldn't."
Her eyes grew distant. She played after her mother died. After fights. After loss. "The piano was how I told my story," she said.
"Maybe music wasn't the story itself," I said.
"What did playing give you?" I asked.
She paused. "A way to say what words couldn't."
Her eyes grew distant. She played after her mother died. After fights. After loss. "The piano was how I told my story," she said.
"Maybe music wasn't the story itself," I said.
"Maybe it was your way of reaching people.
Maybe what lasts is being there, not just performing."
Tears filled her eyes as she looked at her grandson's photo__ a boy in a cricket jersey, standing beside her at Charminar. "He visits. I listen. I can't do much else."
"Does that matter to him?"
"I suppose. He told me my voice is his favourite song."
The room grew quiet. The faint sound of Telugu voices drifted from the corridor. A nurse's footsteps passed by.
"The cancer can take your strength," I said, "but not your meaning. You're still his grandmother. Still you."
Lakshmi picked up the photo, her thumb tracing the boy's face. "Maybe I can tell him stories. About his mother. About Hyderabad before the traffic. About the first piano I ever touched."
She smiled a little.
The sunlight stayed on her hands. They no longer played Music. But they still offered love.
Moral:
Tears filled her eyes as she looked at her grandson's photo__ a boy in a cricket jersey, standing beside her at Charminar. "He visits. I listen. I can't do much else."
"Does that matter to him?"
"I suppose. He told me my voice is his favourite song."
The room grew quiet. The faint sound of Telugu voices drifted from the corridor. A nurse's footsteps passed by.
"The cancer can take your strength," I said, "but not your meaning. You're still his grandmother. Still you."
Lakshmi picked up the photo, her thumb tracing the boy's face. "Maybe I can tell him stories. About his mother. About Hyderabad before the traffic. About the first piano I ever touched."
She smiled a little.
The sunlight stayed on her hands. They no longer played Music. But they still offered love.
Moral:
Our worth isn't in what we do, but in the love and presence we give, even when everything else is gone.
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