Title : Nanna and Nightmares

After October, my life changed completely. I don’t know whether to call this healing… or just a phase I am passing through. After his death, I didn’t cry when he was burning. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I stood there… and nothing came out. No tears. No sobbing. Just silence. But later… it hit me. When I slowly started forgetting his face. When his voice became faint. When I had to go back to pictures and voice notes just to remember how he sounded. That hurt more. My body was slowly erasing him. But my heart refused to. Every memory felt like someone pressing on a wound that never closed. And through all this… one person stood beside me like a shadow. Nanna. I am far from him now. Different city. Different room. Different life. But he is the only person I have truly allowed myself to be close to. After that death… I have never slept properly.

Nightmares became normal. I would wake up in fear, heart racing, feeling heavy… wanting to escape the dream. And the first thing I would do

every single time is reach for my phone and call: “Nanna.” Sometimes 3 a.m. Sometimes 1 a.m. Sometimes 2:50 a.m. Always Nanna. I am 20 years old. But when he picks up the call, I don’t speak like I’m 20. I just say softly, “Nanna… Nanna…” And he says, “Thalaripoyindii nanna… Morning ayipoyindii…” (It’s morning already, baby…) And he talks to me like I am three years old again. Like I never grew up. I lost many years with them until I was eleven. I don’t have many good memories from that time. And that thought still breaks me. But some memories… stay. I remember when I was in class 2. The night before Friendship Day, I was so excited. We had a black telephone at home. I called Nanna and asked him to bring friendship bands for me. And he did. The next day, I went to school with so much hope. I tied friendship bands to everyone — thinking at least one person would tie one for me. I was smiling. Expecting. But I received none. That evening, I remember wearing my brother’s shorts. My anklets were making sound when I walked. There was a wooden sofa without cushions. It was hard for me to climb, so I would crawl up and sit there to do my homework. Nanna came home. He sat beside me. He said happily, “Let’s see how many friendship bands you got today! It must be a big number.” I felt guilty. Embarrassed. Small. I lied. “Nanna… there were too many friends in my school van… so I removed mine and tied them to others.” What a lie. My father — the magician — who can understand even when I just yawn. He knew. He didn’t say anything. He quietly removed the red plastic ring he was wearing. It had “FRIEND” written on top. He slid it onto my thumb. It was loose. Too big. But I knew. That was my first friendship band. And it came from him. Sometimes I like sulking around my parents. Becoming small again. Becoming a child again. It heals something very deep inside me. My nightmares… they push me back into being a little girl. And just like parents wake up for a newborn baby… he wakes up for me. During fever. During jaundice. During smallpox. During COVID. Hospital nights. He never slept properly when I was unwell. Even today, he says, “My eyes cannot blink when you are in tears.” Maybe this is healing. Maybe this is grief turning into love. Maybe this is your heart choosing the one place where it feels safe. You are not weak for calling him at 3 a.m. You are not immature for saying only “Nanna.” You are a daughter. And somewhere inside you, that little girl is still alive. And she finally feels safe enough to cry. That is not a phase, Roshni. That is love.