She's not my type, and that's my problem.

She had to have been in her early twenties.  The older lady was probably in her eighties.  The younger one was sitting close to the older on a bench at the നാവജീവന്‍ ഭവന്‍  (Navajeevan Bhavan - New Life House).  It’s an institution that takes care of people with psychiatric disorders and unable to function in society.  Some are violent and are locked up in two sections, one for men and one for women.  Some are just helpless by themselves, however pose no threat.  They walk around campus freely.  This elderly lady was one of the latter.  I’ll refer to her as Amma.

My friend, who had met Amma before, asked her if she remembered him.  She just stared at him.  He asked again.  She began to cry.  The younger lady said Amma’s hard of hearing.  She then wrapped her arm around Amma’s shoulders, held her face right up against the ear of Amma, and asked her, “Do you remember him?”  She then looked at my friend and shook her head.  Then my friend took off his glasses.  Amma looked, and all of a sudden a huge smile appeared.  She stood up and hugged him.  

She sat back down and the younger one held her close.  Amma began to tell us a story of how she spent Rs. 5 for a bus, and was sent to this institution.  She seemed upset about the Rs. 5.  The younger one smiled and went to her ear again and said, “When you leave, they will give you your money back.”  Amma smiled and laughed.  The younger one then held her face tightly against Amma’s as a sign of affection.

Certainly, she’s Amma’s granddaughter, I thought.

Amma would then tell me her stories.  My friend was with me too, but Amma’s eyes were staring right into my own eyes.  Her eyes were almost blue, probably due to cataracts.  But she seemed to see fine, and her stare was quite penetrating.  She was telling me how she had eight children, and five have died.  Her toothless smile turned into a frown.  It looked as if she was about to cry again, but she didn’t.  She kept telling her story.  I couldn’t understand the rest of it, but I couldn’t stop looking at her eyes as she spoke.  Although once in a while I’d look at the fading white streak across her forehead.

My friend finally asked the younger one who she was.  She said her name.  Then, as is customary in this culture, he asked her where she is from.  She answered.  He then asked where Amma is from.  She couldn’t remember.  She then went to Amma’s ear again and asked, “Where is your home?”  Amma turned to look at her, surprised that she had forgotten.  Amma said where she’s from.  It was the same place the younger one was from.  She then hugged Amma, sorry for forgetting.  Amma just laughed again.

It turned out that the younger lady has no relation to Amma, aside from being from the same place.  She volunteers at Navajeevan and cares for the women there. 

When that realization came to me, I thought to myself: that’s love.  She showed the kind of affection to Amma as if she was her mother or grandmother.  But really, Amma was just a stranger and the younger one befriended her.

It's a love for neighbor that I lack.