Yesterday, my grandmother’s framed photo fell from the wall it adorned. Yesterday, I watched an Instagram Reel that depicted a ‘dream come true’ event for a young lady who took her grandfather on his first-ever airplane journey. It feels like yesterday that the inevitable truth of life, death, snatched away my beloved grandparents.
Nani-Nana, Dadi-Dada/Dadu, as we fondly call our grandmas and grandpas in India (pardon my ignorance around all the names used in different Indian languages to address them), they were my ‘comfort relations’, if there was such a thing. Rebuked by parents? Take your grievance to the grandparents and rest assured, dear parents are in for a piece of age-old wisdom on how to raise children! Mom used the cane? Oh well, that’s like hitting the granny jackpot! Wail with all the lung power, shed the fattest drops of tears and you are in for the day of your life! You name anything, and you get it as a balm for the corporal punishment. The culprit parent may hold the grudge against you and avenge himself/herself and that’s a story for another day.
I was a strange kid, at least I would like to think I was. A weird mix of introverted emotions and extroverted exuberance, most wouldn’t quite understand what I was like. The pseudo-mysterious personality was for the one and only time, deciphered by my ‘Dida’ (Bangla for Nani for the uninitiated). She was this uber awesome lady, graceful, kind, empathetic, with this winner smile, shy demeanor, and the wisdom of a thousand ascetics. Yes, you can argue, this adulation is fueled by my evergreen, constant love, and devotion for her, yet the adjectives I choose emerge from a study of past events vis-à-vis the value system we are raised in, the world we live in. I was and still am a fan of this lady, who wouldn’t blink twice before sharing her lunch or dinner with an outsider who may reach her door. If patience would walk the earth in human form, she/he would come a distant second to my Nani. Hours, days, months, and years of embracing my tantrums and demands and those of others around her and never for a nano second uttering a harsh word. All of us, sometimes or the other and some more regularly than others, indulge in life hacks like gossiping and ranting. My Dida is the only one I know, who never ever spoke ill about anyone (in seriousness or jest), that too when she was gifted with this sharp wit and humour.
From Nanaji’s modest pension, after running the household expenses, she always had some pennies for this granddaughter, who loved the yellow vanilla cake from the local bakery. For every small win at school or just because she thought I looked pretty in a dress, I would get a box of colour pencils or, hold your breath, lipstick! My mother was worried sick that Nana and Nani would splurge everything on this hyper child and may even spoil her. Yet, over the two decades of my life with her, Dida walked the talk, or should I say, she seldom lectured and only led by example; words and gestures that were intrinsic to her being and always organic.
Circling back to demystifying my strangeness, my grandma sensed what I was. She took that secret with her, and I am averse to tom-tomming about it now! The fact that she knew me better than I would ever guess my true nature, was the magnetic pull I felt. She shielded me and at the same time taught me to be brave. One need not be the loudest to shine. It is the purity of our intentions and transparency of our actions that illuminates the world around us, makes it breathable and worth a second glance.
Faith can move mountains. I have seen it happen despite my story not having the ‘happily ever after’ ending. Nani was diagnosed with cancer; doctors ruled out any form of surgery or chemotherapy given her existing medical history. Each morsel of food or a spoonful of water that went in would regurgitate with the might of Thor. It was in plain terms, horrific and shattered all of us, except the sufferer. Nani, in all her innocent glory, remained a steadfast believer in what one famous astrologer told her several decades ago that she would never get this disease, ever. So, this lady rallied on for years and her unflinching faith somehow found a way to overpower the deadly cells. Alternative medicines, that were not common then, found their way to her and held her steady for several years, until we hit the roadblock of a kind that proved insurmountable; medical negligence. Well, let’s park that for a different platform and debate.
Why am I writing all this, sharing bits of my broken heart as I try to fight the tears all this while? I do not know. Perhaps it was the falling photo combined with the video that sent me on an overwhelming emotional tide and I wouldn’t like to connect all this with ‘Ekta Kapoor’ style dots. Or maybe, it was after several years that I had gathered the courage to hold her photo so close and looked at her pristine face. I was still a student when she moved on, I did not have a salary to take her on an airplane and go visit her hometown in Tripura. I knew she longed to meet her kith and kin (could I get any more old-school?) because I grew up listening to the stories of how, after being married off at a young age, she only visited her father once after. I wasn’t equipped to fill her life with material purchases as any able grandchild would do. All that I could manage were letters that I wrote to her (you remember postcards and inland letters?) narrating stories of hostel life and college rigmarole, how I was practicing, day and night, the miniscule role of a shadow in my college play, my struggle with Tori-Tinda and similar Delhi vegetables. In reply, she would write simple lines blessing me and encouraging me to live my life my way and enjoy what the world had to offer. Profound in the most effortless manner! That was my granny.
The last thing I would like to do is project the missing pieces of my life on to you, who is painstakingly reading this. No, I do not envy you as you cuddle up to your grandparents or touch their feet to seek blessing. All that I wish for is that one glimpse of the lady who loved me unconditionally enough to keep me at bay as she breathed her last breath, to untie, one more time, the knot at the end of her saree’s pallu that hid the notes for me, to feel her fingers run through my hair night long as I rest it up. I admit, I do feel the pangs of envy at times.
This evening, I repaired the frame, and she is back up on the wall, smiling benevolently at all of us. For all those who are lucky still to have their grandparents, love these oldies and soak in all their rock-solid vibes and wisdom. I may commit blasphemy, yet I am compelled to state that parents can learn a lesson or two about untainted love from grandparents.
Once more, the dog-eared letters are neatly folded back and returned to the old jewellery box. I stopped waiting for someone to buy me a box of colour pencils or a red lipstick a long time ago…
