The Passage of Time

by Aamna Rehman

Image from SoundCloud

How surreptitiously time, age, and the frailty of my own body has begun to distance me from those I once knew like the back of my hand. I look at my hand now, and even that doesn’t look the same anymore. The skin is loose and thin, the bones beneath fragile. I can feel the veins under the skin so clearly, like unruly creases spreading across an old carpet.

It’s hard to believe how much has changed. Once, not so long ago, I was full of strength—hands brimming with energy and purpose. I remember when my granddaughter was eight, with freshly washed hair, dripping and dampening the back of her frock with a semi-circle of water. I would sit her on my lap, my hands steady as I gently combed through the tangles. She would curl up, clutch my hand, and drift off to sleep, my arm aching from the strain of stroking her back for what felt like hours. I didn’t mind then. My hands were full of life—washing clothes by hand, digging into the soil, stirring pots for dinner, pushing them on the swings. It was all a part of the rhythm of life, something I didn’t even think to question.

But now, my own body betrays me so often. My children, my grandchildren—born of me but living apart most of the time— we seem to have outgrown each other. How could I expect them to remain the same?

I look at my grandchildren, and I can’t help but feel the distance growing. Their worlds are so different, filled with stories of college life, social media, and things I struggle to understand. They talk about fests, reels, and friends, and though I listen, it’s hard to feel a part of their lives anymore. Inevitably I have been swept in the rush of time, and I have learnt to swim. But I don’t sail through them as my family does. I use the phone and I know how to look up recipes and gardening tips. It still is not the same as being born knowing what to do like we did our needles and threads.

My little girl is in college now. I never studied past the 10th grade. How could I possibly understand what she’s going through? Sometimes, when they talk to me about their days, it feels like I’ve barely done anything at all by comparison. But then, a memory rises up—a moment from my own youth. Didn’t me and my friends play games, share stories, and gather together every evening on rooftops? Didn’t my hands stay busy, either knitting, sewing, chopping, or stirring, as we came together like a family?

The world feels smaller now, and my connections with it thinner, like the skin on my hands. Yet, there are moments when I feel the past pulling at me, sharp and vivid. It’s strange—sometimes the memories from my childhood feel crystal clear, so vibrant. I could swear I remember the first colored broadcast on Doordarshan like it was yesterday, as if I could step right into that picture if I tell the story enough times. I do need that little gadget to remind me of things I need to do,

medicines I need to take, or events that are scheduled for the next week. It seems like the world keeps spinning faster, while I stand still, watching.

"All Amma talks about is how things were during her time," my grandchildren say. I can feel the annoyance settle across my lips, my brows furrowing. What do they know, these young ones? But can I blame them? They're so full of life—alive, alive, alive. Everyone at that age feels invincible. Didn’t I too feel that way once?

And yet, the years weigh on me. My thoughts drift back to those evenings of gathering and talking the next gali, where everyone’s home felt like part of my own. I think about how time has passed and left its mark on my relationships. My granddaughters slip in from time to time, offering perfunctory hugs, a brief moment of connection before they disappear back into their own lives. I take the affection anyway, though it’s different now—more awkward, less intimate.

Then one day, the eldest slips into my room. She offers a hug, and then, sitting down next to me, she places a yarn and a crochet hook in my hands, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Teach me how to do this, Amma”. A tentative warmth seeps through me. She says she saw it on a YouTube reel? The familiarity of the gesture is a comfort, but it’s bittersweet. I automatically reach out to stroke her hair, and with a soft, pleased smile, I say, “Of course, beta.”

In that quiet moment, the years fade a little. I can almost feel the past flowing back into me, connecting my hands with hers across the bridge of time. Maybe it’s not so different after all.