We had this little ritual-like thing, you see. Ever since I can recall, each time it rained, we would sit on the balcony together. We swayed back and forth to the pitter patter of the rain drops, stealing spoonfuls of honey all the while caught up in conversation. We would sit wrapped in our blanket of comfort and just watch the rain fall. Now, her pale yellowish skin is wrinkly all over. It's hard to notice the occasional twinkle in her squinty eyes. Her forehead is covered with lines of wisdom; faint red patches. Her hair - what remains of it - falls gracefully down to her shoulders, as white as the color of her crisp sari.
Fifty years ago though, she was a sight to see. Her silk-like hair hung way beneath her lower back, dancing as she walked. Her laughter - no, her presence itself was capable of captivating even the sternest of hearts. She became a part of any and everyone she ever encountered, because of her selfless personality. Her big glossy eyes would sparkle at the littlest of things. She had always been so full of hope, yet never naïve. She is unwell now. The strong arms that cradled me and rocked me night after night are weak - almost limp. The voice that sang to me numerous lullabies, now hardly have strength in them to speak two words. My endless source of support, the one that adored me with every fiber in her body, now fails to recognize me.
No longer does she call out to me. Neither does she respond. She last spoke to me when the skies roared and 13 people died in Dhaka. The thunders were frequent and rainfall unwanted, but her face still beamed as she gripped onto my hands and said slowly but with so much strength, “There's this woman in my corridor and she is whispering. She whispers sweet things, ones they don't put in sad songs. She speaks in unison with the rainfall. With each droplet that makes its way down to earth, she enjoys a little flicker of hope. Whisper happy things and stop to smell the roses, because happiness is the easiest thing that you will ever craft for yourself.”
On very rare occasions however, very rare - mind you, she has her brief moments of lucidity. On her face then, is that very familiar smirk as she asks for the same old spoonful of heaven. And then, she will ever so softly utter, 'honey'.
The title has been borrowed from a Beatles song.