The Hands That Braided My Hair

When I was a child, Daadee’s hands were magic.

They could soothe any fever, find anything I lost, and braid my hair so perfectly that not a strand dared fall out of place. She wasn’t loud, like Dada. She didn’t tell jokes or command attention at family dinners. But her presence filled the room in quieter, stronger ways.

She was the one who remembered everyone’s favorite dishes, who never missed a prayer, who sewed little patches inside our old school uniforms so they’d last another year. Her wisdom wasn’t in books. It was in the way she spoke, slow and thoughtful, as if every word deserved its time.


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As I grew older, I started to forget how powerful her silence was.

Life got louder — school, friends, phones, college applications. I’d visit her on weekends, sit for tea, take pictures for Instagram. She’d still braid my hair when I let her, her hands slower now, her fingers trembling just a little more each time.

Then one day, she stopped braiding altogether.


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We first noticed something was wrong when she began forgetting names.

Nothing alarming at first — she’d call my cousin “Beta” instead of his name. But then she forgot birthdays. Forgot she had already eaten. Forgot she had told a story just an hour ago.

“She’s just tired,” Ammi said.

But tiredness doesn’t explain confusion. It doesn’t explain getting lost in your own home.


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The doctor’s words came gently, but hit like thunder: "It’s the early stages of dementia. Possibly Alzheimer's."

It was like a slow unraveling of the woman we thought would never change. Her world began to shrink. The house she had lived in for 40 years became unfamiliar. Mirrors confused her. She once screamed at her own reflection, thinking a stranger had entered her room.

It broke us.

But somehow, even in her decline, she remained soft. Not once did she raise her voice. Not once did she forget to say "Shukriya" when we helped her.

She still called me to her room sometimes, asked me to sit by her, and gently touched my hair like she used to. Her eyes no longer remembered me — but her hands did.


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One winter morning, I visited her alone.

She was wrapped in a shawl, looking out the window, mumbling a lullaby I hadn’t heard in years. I sat next to her, quietly, and placed her hand in mine.

After a few minutes, she turned to me and whispered, “I had a granddaughter… she had thick black hair like yours.”

Tears burned my eyes.

“I’m right here, Daadee,” I said.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then smiled. “I know.”

I don’t know if she really did. But that smile was enough.


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Her last days were peaceful, in a strange, aching way.

She stopped eating much. Slept more. Talked less. Sometimes she hummed songs from her youth. Sometimes she stared at the ceiling and laughed softly, like someone was telling her a private joke.

We tried to prepare ourselves. We prayed, took turns sitting with her, combed her hair gently. I would read aloud from her favorite book, even though I knew she didn’t follow the words anymore.

One night, I stayed over.

She was breathing slow and light, like the air itself didn’t want to disturb her. I held her hand and told her all the things I should’ve said earlier.

I told her how her hands raised a whole family.
How her food tasted better than any restaurant.
How her lullabies still echoed in my dreams.
And how I would never let my daughter grow up not knowing her name.

She didn’t respond. But her fingers tightened slightly around mine. Just once.


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She passed away the next morning.

There were no hospital lights. No tubes. No machines. Just family, quiet sobs, and the scent of rosewater in the air. We buried her beside Dada, under the same tree where they once used to sit every evening.

The house felt colder after that. The walls seemed too quiet. Her chair remained untouched for weeks. But her presence — it was everywhere. In the prayer mat she had embroidered. In the spices she blended herself. In the braid that I still make in my own daughter’s hair.


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Grief doesn’t end. It softens, then resurfaces, then softens again.

But love — especially the kind Daadee gave — becomes the thread that stitches us back together.