As I run my fingers through the delicate tassels of my kancheevaram sarees, an essential component of the South Indian festive wardrobe, my eyes mist over with tears. If only I could turn the clock back once, to gaze at that beloved face.

Not so long ago, an aged hand had worked miracles on the jagged silk threads at the ends of my sarees, working its magic, weaving together threads, to transform the uneven edges of the ethnic attire into exquisite silk tassels. With spectacles balanced precariously on her aged but beautiful long nose, she set to work, from morning to evening, embroidering unearthly patterns. And as I wore those sarees one after another to parties and receptions, I thanked her profusely no doubt, but did I really realise the sea of love that lay beneath those glittering threads that my grandmother wove into exquisite tassels?

Ten years ago, my grandmother passed away, forced by stubborn age-related infirmities to sadly relinquish her last wish to see my newborn daughter, Maansi — her first great grand-daughter.

When we called to share news of the bundle of joy that had tumbled into our lives, she had been overjoyed, though her voice reflected a certain tiredness that made me uneasy — the unsettling memory of a fatigue that raised its ugly head numerous times after that. But since she had been an agile and versatile lady, the thought of an imminent death never cast its shadow in our thoughts about her. And being a first time mother, wrapped up and engrossed in caring for the newborn, and losing myself in loving her, the tiredness in her voice was soon pushed, unconsciously, to the shadowy stairwells of the mind, to be resurrected later after her passing away.

Now, sitting on my balcony, gazing at the play of sunrays on my lovingly tended bougainvillea, I dwell on all the plans I had had for her, which lay crumbled at my feet, mocking me for irrevocable inaction. Plans of how I would bring her to see the city of dreams, of how we would wander through the pavilions at Global Village, of reliving the magic of Dubai through her eyes. I look down at her last letter nestling between my trembling fingers, handwritten gems of advice on the trials and tribulations of motherhood, a coldness blankets me, a dreadful loneliness and I cry inconsolably.

At night, as I switch off the lamp and the room is shrouded in darkness for a while till the eye gets accustomed to night vision, in that span of a few minutes, her face swims before my blanked out vision. If only I could see her, one last time. I squeeze my eyes shut and tears trickle down.

And I remember those childhood summers spent at my grandmother’s home, the softly sung songs that put me to sleep. The hand stitched frocks that took days to take shape, the beautifully embroidered custom-made pillow cases. The exotic fried fresh seafood, which were no match for her teethless gums but nonetheless were prepared for me everyday. The smell of sun dried crisp cotton sheets that welcomed me at night into a fairy land of dreams and fantasy. And of waking up on cold, rainy mornings and gazing out to the courtyard through the wooden window grills, attempting to decipher the strange language of the downpour.

Grandma’s passing away taught us a crucial lesson in living life: making each moment of the present count. And taking time out from our busy schedules to bond with our loved ones, family, friends and relatives.

Now I have all the time in the world; I am ready to connect, to bond, to communicate. But during this journey, a generation has slipped away, unable to garner the strength and resilience to wait for the young to retrace their steps from disorientation. The words of Omar Khayyam ring in my ears, as I struggle with memories, wrestle with regrets, and try to come to terms with the personal loss. “Dead Yesterday, Unborn Tomorrow/ Why fret about them, if Today be ours?”

The nostalgic remembrances of things past, together with the regrets, have sculpted, stone by stone, layer by layer, a new awareness. Yes, to make each living second count, if not for yourself, maybe for others.

Bhavana Koliyot is a communications specialist living in Dubai.