A possession isn’t necessarily something one uses regularly. As human beings we often hoard and value certain belongings because of their ability to take us back to periods we have cherished. Or because they reminds us of a loved one and their memories.In the corner of my upper closet shelf lies a nondescript paddle brush with wooden bristles. To this day it remains tightly wrapped in a transparent cellophane sheet. Perhaps it laments its misfortune for being banished to a dark and dingy space. Devoid of the warm rays of sunlight and the tender touch of a human.It will remain so.The hand woven willow duck basket on my dressing table overflows with an eclectic range of brushes and combs. But even if there comes a day when this isn’t the case, I still won’t make use of the wooden brush. Its sudden purchase was preceded by events etched in my mind.In 2016 my grandfather spent two weeks in AIIMS because of a severe chest infection. The tiny hospital room designated as a “VVIP Suite” was deathly white. White starched bedsheets, thin white walls and white vinyl tiled floors. The overpowering smell of disinfectant seeped into every pore. Oddly enough windows were conspicuously absent and the room lacked any form of ventilation. This unsettling detail immediately imparted a sense of claustrophobia so severe, it was reminiscent of the hospitals depicted in Alfred Hitchcock horror movies.The room thrummed with the disconcerting hiss of machines. The maze of the tentacle-like wires that emerged latched on to my grandfathers bulging veins. Their rigid grip emblematic of their declaration and intention to never let him leave alive.Mufti Mohammad Sayeed abd Iltija Mufti. Photo: Author providedCovered in a thin white cotton blanket, I vividly remember his toes peeping out. Almost as if to express his unfulfilled desire to be discharged at once and resume work that fuelled his passion. He lied listlessly on a plastic white hospital bed. Despite attempts to project a cheerful countenance, a pallid face and restive eyes betrayed his efforts. His blood platelet count plummeted and a bone marrow transfusion was ruled out. Witnessing his condition deteriorate as the days progressed felt like watching sand granules slip through my fingers. Helpless and desperate, we tried so very hard to hold on to him.At AIIMS, we took turns in pairs to look after my grandfather. On that particular day, mum and I were on duty at the hospital. The situation seemed dreadfully despondent. Mum sat on a creaky chair and extended her arms to feed him homemade chicken broth, dal and rice. The illness had numbed his sense of taste. But he quietly swallowed every morsel without so much even a whimper or grumble.Every family possesses a member who invariably plays the role of a buffer. In times of crisis, simmering tensions are diffused with the art of distraction and humour. As our hopes diminished, I realised that all of us were drowning in an ocean of despair. I decided to step up by stepping in.My grandfather had incredibly thick silky hair flecked with silver. Always neatly brushed to perfection. But owing to the hospitalisation, his hair slightly disheveled.“Daddy, let me brush your hair,” I suggested in a tone that ceded no space for refusal. I found a wide toothed comb at my disposal. He sat up like an obedient child and gazed as my hand swayed diligently in a rhythmic motion to brush his tuft of silver hair. I noticed that the plastic brush with its rough edges & sharp teeth wasn’t particularly soothing on his scalp. Yet he humoured my attempts at grooming him without stating the obvious.In retrospect, I overestimated my abilities and wrongly assumed my “main role” to lessen looming apprehensions. I was merely supporting cast. Sensing the despondence that had etched deep lines across my mother’s face, my grandfather broke into a grin and remarked flippantly, “Mehbooba, yeh aise brush kar rahi hai jaise mujhe tayaar hokar bahar jaana hai meeting karne (Mehbooba, she is brushing my hair as if I have to get ready and go out for a meeting).”And for a moment, the debilitating collective anxiety that hung in the room dissipated. As soon as I left the hospital I bought the first hair brush I laid my eyes on at a convenience store across a busy petrol pump. A pale yellow brown wooden brush with soft bamboo bristles.That day was the last I ever stroked his silvery hair. Mufti Mohammad Sayeed sahab spent the last two weeks of his life at AIIMS. He craved to witness the glow of a rising sun and feel its warmth lingering on his skin. Six years later, the brush remains unopened.Iltija Mufti can be contacted on iltijam87@gmail.com.