The Sound of the Swing

The Sound of the Swing

The garden had long fallen silent.

Once, it was a kingdom of chaos: shrieks of laughter, stomping feet, and the creak-creak of the wooden swing that hung from the old guava tree. Now, only the rustling of wind through dry leaves remained, whispering secrets to no one in particular.

It had been twelve years since I last stepped foot in my grandparents’ house. The paint had faded, the windows had clouded with dust, and the swing… the swing still hung in place, though the ropes were frayed with time. I stood before it, suddenly unsure if I was the same girl who used to fly through the air, screaming with joy, her braids catching the wind.

I came back to this place not for memories, but closure. Dadi had passed last week. The funeral was quick, efficient. The grief wasn’t.

As I walked through the gate, the same rusty hinge squeaked — that same squeak that Dadu used to oil every Sunday. I smiled despite myself. Even grief can make space for nostalgia.

In the corner of the garden, just beneath the guava tree, a small piece of white cloth hung from one of the branches. I walked over. It was a child’s scarf — faded, but familiar. Mine. I had tied it there the day Dadi scolded me for climbing too high and I had promised to never return to the swing again. I must’ve been ten.

I had returned the next morning.

---

Memories come in fragments — sounds, smells, touches.

The swing creaked gently in the breeze. It felt like it was calling me.

I sat on it. The wood was cold and uneven, worn down by sun and rain. I gripped the ropes — hesitant, like I was holding the hands of a memory I wasn’t ready to face.

I closed my eyes.

Suddenly I was back.

Dadi was calling from the kitchen, the smell of cardamom tea floating through the windows. Dadu sat on the porch, pretending to read the paper but watching me with a smile. I was flying high, higher, highest. The sky above me, the earth below. For those few seconds, gravity did not matter. Time did not matter. I was infinite.

---

But time is a thief that steals without warning.

Dadu died when I was sixteen. Dadi, not long after, started forgetting things. Her mind, once sharp and firm, began to soften. First, she forgot names. Then faces. Then the swing.

“It creaks too much,” she once told me, staring at it like it was something foreign. “Why don’t we take it down?”

I had shaken my head. “It’s yours, Dadi.”

She laughed. “I don’t swing anymore.”

“You used to,” I whispered, but she didn’t hear me.

---

As I opened my eyes again, the breeze picked up, and for a second, the swing moved on its own — just a slight nudge, like someone was gently pushing from behind.

I turned, startled. No one.

Just the wind.

Or maybe... Dadi.

---

Grief isn't loud. It whispers. It lingers.

I stayed on that swing for what felt like hours. I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. I just remembered.

Remembered the way Dadi would braid my hair with jasmine oil. The way Dadu hummed old songs while fixing broken furniture. The way this house — this garden — held all the chapters of my childhood like pressed flowers in a forgotten book.

When I finally stood up, I knew I had to go. I wasn’t that little girl anymore. The house wasn’t the same. But the swing — it had waited for me.

Before I left, I tied a new scarf to the branch — bright yellow. I didn’t look back to see it flutter in the wind. I didn’t have to.

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Some things stay. Even when everything else leaves.