Dadi
My grandmother, my Dadi, is no more.
She was my last living grandparent, she outlived the first of them to go by a good fifteen years. She was ninety, a frail woman at the end (although if you knew her the way I remember her, you wouldn't believe it), almost entirely skin and bone, but she spun out the last five years of her life from the pure strands of will power, aided and abetted by all the love and care my family could give her. I know it would be true to say that she lived a full life (and it is something I'm likely to hear from a lot of people in the following days), but, with a grand-daughter's heart, I cannot help missing her. I cannot help but grieve even as my mind tells me she's 'in a better place' now. I know this sounds distinctly unscientific and superstitious, but I console myself by thinking that she was probably paged by my grand-dad from the 'other world'. After five years without her, and probably not finding anyone else he could sustain a mock-argument with, he'd started to miss her repartees, and miss her. Ok, Dada, your need is probably greater.
Now, with the 'race of grandparents' extinct, I realize how fortunate I am to have had four grandparents. Four fond, loving, living grandparents; each giving rise to a trove of memories for me and Piglett. Take Dadi herself. I'm sure it was an open secret that Piglett and I raided her cupboard (we knew where to find the keys) and stole the little white mints all the time, and the churan bottle every once in a while. We waited for her 'kitty party' days when my mother would come into her element and cook a delicious vegetarian meal that all of Dadi's friends enjoyed immensely. They would follow up the feast with the traditional round of Bingo (Housie/Lottery Tickets, whatever you call it) and, when the announcer said, "Two fat ladies, Eighty-eight", it never failed to bring a grin to our faces. True, we didn't like her "black-and-white vegetable" as much, but I've yet to taste mango pickle that was as good as the one she made. And the mumra laddoos, preceded by the sweet smell of slightly burning guud from the kitchen. And, of course, the kela paak made from old soft bananas, one of my all-time favorite sweets!
Coming from a generation that was not yet "modern", she was enterprising in other ways too. I remember, every once in a while, the room filled with chemicals, and, in a corner, a smoking tub in which she made soap. Yes, soap. I think she stopped doing it soon after we started to run around the house, mostly because of the danger factor having chemicals around us children, partly because washing soap became easier to purchase as we grew older. She was an admirer of Gandhi and played her own small role in the freedom struggle; as a child learning my little bit of modern Indian history, I still remember in awe her recollections of those days and her stories of using a charkha. For the longest time as a child I thought Gandhiji's favorite song ("Vaishnavajan") was a part of the Koran, because she sang it so effortlessly, like it was a part of her life all along***. In many ways, she was a lot more secular than others of her generation, although probably just as traditional. I still remember receiving an earful ("You do not call anyone that! Do you know what it means?") when I, influenced by others of my generation, unthinkingly called a friend "yaar" in her presence. And I shall never ever forget the day she tried to convince us that pigs were unholy, and that we "shouldn't even take the name of that animal". My cousin, W, a few years older than Piglett and myself, was in the conversation too. He casually asked "Which animal, Dadi?" "Pigs, what else?" I still cannot believe she fell into that trap. I think she ran to take a shower (to wash off the taint) while the three of us hooted with laughter.
Community was a large part of my grandmother's life. I realize now that it was that factor that kept her alive and alert right through the last five years. Through her dimming eyes and tired limbs, she was still able to talk and listen perfectly, two faculties elevated to a single art form over the years. I still remember a young man who dialed us on the phone by mistake, heard my grandmother's voice (she must have been seventy-five then) and asked her out, thinking she was a sweet-voiced young woman. We had the best laugh that day! Dadi also maintained a fairly strong streak of humor - I think April Fool's Day was as important to her as, say, Ramzan Id. She'd try as hard as she could to take in as many folks as possible. She could take it a bit far, though - I remember her once frightening a young servant maid into hysterics when she chopped off the end of a large beetroot and stuck the root protruding out of a cabinet. The poor girl saw the 'tail' and thought there was a mouse in the house! Piglett and I, of course, had a good deal of experience with this sort of thing, and with all the naughtiness of childhood, we devised our own payback. We took a little left-over atta, fashioned a fairly convincing lizard out of the dough and strategically placed it on a counter in the kitchen. Then, screaming, "Dadi, chipkali!!" we gave a convincing impression of fear and impatience. Have I mentioned Dadi's strong will before? Well, she was a strong woman - and unafraid of such little things as insects and reptiles. She tip-toed closer to the large lizard ... and pounced! Words fail me when I try to describe the next minute. Her face changed from "Aha! Gotcha!" to "Why is this creature turning into pulp in my hands?" to "Ewww!!" as we children rolled on the floor in helpless laughter, clutching our stomachs. I think a good many people thanked us that day, and, to her credit, Dadi enjoyed the joke too.
Not everything was a song and dance routine. She could be stubborn, she was certainly imperious, and the generation gap played its role too. In the years that I've moved away from home, I've learned to accept these differences better, and to understand her and Dada. Things grew harder when she lost the use of her limbs. Once so active and full of energy, it was hard for her - and us - to accept the change in her situation. The last weeks have been painful ones, physically for her and emotionally for us. When I spoke to her two days ago, I sensed that she was trying to say goodbye without actually saying it. I think I've been grieving ever since, but now that she's gone, I cannot seem to remember the last few days, or even years. I remember her as she was, as I'd like to remember her always. And, in some ways, I shall remember my grandparents - and the things we did - as characters and incidents in a child's story-book, so I can talk to my children (and Piglett's) about the elders I was privileged to know.
P.S. As we were swapping remembrances, Piglett just informed me that she'd cheated (successfully) on chaar kola nu daan, a board game (like Ludo) that we used to play with our grandparents. I'm sure Dada is proud of her!
*** As a child brought up in a truly multi-cultural, multi-religious, multi-lingual environment, I have had many experiences of this sort, where I couldn't tell what culture I was experiencing, in that moment. I consider myself fortunate, and lucky to have a family that encouraged a multi-everything, truly secular, upbringing, and I know I owe that to my parents and grandparents.
She was my last living grandparent, she outlived the first of them to go by a good fifteen years. She was ninety, a frail woman at the end (although if you knew her the way I remember her, you wouldn't believe it), almost entirely skin and bone, but she spun out the last five years of her life from the pure strands of will power, aided and abetted by all the love and care my family could give her. I know it would be true to say that she lived a full life (and it is something I'm likely to hear from a lot of people in the following days), but, with a grand-daughter's heart, I cannot help missing her. I cannot help but grieve even as my mind tells me she's 'in a better place' now. I know this sounds distinctly unscientific and superstitious, but I console myself by thinking that she was probably paged by my grand-dad from the 'other world'. After five years without her, and probably not finding anyone else he could sustain a mock-argument with, he'd started to miss her repartees, and miss her. Ok, Dada, your need is probably greater.
Now, with the 'race of grandparents' extinct, I realize how fortunate I am to have had four grandparents. Four fond, loving, living grandparents; each giving rise to a trove of memories for me and Piglett. Take Dadi herself. I'm sure it was an open secret that Piglett and I raided her cupboard (we knew where to find the keys) and stole the little white mints all the time, and the churan bottle every once in a while. We waited for her 'kitty party' days when my mother would come into her element and cook a delicious vegetarian meal that all of Dadi's friends enjoyed immensely. They would follow up the feast with the traditional round of Bingo (Housie/Lottery Tickets, whatever you call it) and, when the announcer said, "Two fat ladies, Eighty-eight", it never failed to bring a grin to our faces. True, we didn't like her "black-and-white vegetable" as much, but I've yet to taste mango pickle that was as good as the one she made. And the mumra laddoos, preceded by the sweet smell of slightly burning guud from the kitchen. And, of course, the kela paak made from old soft bananas, one of my all-time favorite sweets!
Coming from a generation that was not yet "modern", she was enterprising in other ways too. I remember, every once in a while, the room filled with chemicals, and, in a corner, a smoking tub in which she made soap. Yes, soap. I think she stopped doing it soon after we started to run around the house, mostly because of the danger factor having chemicals around us children, partly because washing soap became easier to purchase as we grew older. She was an admirer of Gandhi and played her own small role in the freedom struggle; as a child learning my little bit of modern Indian history, I still remember in awe her recollections of those days and her stories of using a charkha. For the longest time as a child I thought Gandhiji's favorite song ("Vaishnavajan") was a part of the Koran, because she sang it so effortlessly, like it was a part of her life all along***. In many ways, she was a lot more secular than others of her generation, although probably just as traditional. I still remember receiving an earful ("You do not call anyone that! Do you know what it means?") when I, influenced by others of my generation, unthinkingly called a friend "yaar" in her presence. And I shall never ever forget the day she tried to convince us that pigs were unholy, and that we "shouldn't even take the name of that animal". My cousin, W, a few years older than Piglett and myself, was in the conversation too. He casually asked "Which animal, Dadi?" "Pigs, what else?" I still cannot believe she fell into that trap. I think she ran to take a shower (to wash off the taint) while the three of us hooted with laughter.
Community was a large part of my grandmother's life. I realize now that it was that factor that kept her alive and alert right through the last five years. Through her dimming eyes and tired limbs, she was still able to talk and listen perfectly, two faculties elevated to a single art form over the years. I still remember a young man who dialed us on the phone by mistake, heard my grandmother's voice (she must have been seventy-five then) and asked her out, thinking she was a sweet-voiced young woman. We had the best laugh that day! Dadi also maintained a fairly strong streak of humor - I think April Fool's Day was as important to her as, say, Ramzan Id. She'd try as hard as she could to take in as many folks as possible. She could take it a bit far, though - I remember her once frightening a young servant maid into hysterics when she chopped off the end of a large beetroot and stuck the root protruding out of a cabinet. The poor girl saw the 'tail' and thought there was a mouse in the house! Piglett and I, of course, had a good deal of experience with this sort of thing, and with all the naughtiness of childhood, we devised our own payback. We took a little left-over atta, fashioned a fairly convincing lizard out of the dough and strategically placed it on a counter in the kitchen. Then, screaming, "Dadi, chipkali!!" we gave a convincing impression of fear and impatience. Have I mentioned Dadi's strong will before? Well, she was a strong woman - and unafraid of such little things as insects and reptiles. She tip-toed closer to the large lizard ... and pounced! Words fail me when I try to describe the next minute. Her face changed from "Aha! Gotcha!" to "Why is this creature turning into pulp in my hands?" to "Ewww!!" as we children rolled on the floor in helpless laughter, clutching our stomachs. I think a good many people thanked us that day, and, to her credit, Dadi enjoyed the joke too.
Not everything was a song and dance routine. She could be stubborn, she was certainly imperious, and the generation gap played its role too. In the years that I've moved away from home, I've learned to accept these differences better, and to understand her and Dada. Things grew harder when she lost the use of her limbs. Once so active and full of energy, it was hard for her - and us - to accept the change in her situation. The last weeks have been painful ones, physically for her and emotionally for us. When I spoke to her two days ago, I sensed that she was trying to say goodbye without actually saying it. I think I've been grieving ever since, but now that she's gone, I cannot seem to remember the last few days, or even years. I remember her as she was, as I'd like to remember her always. And, in some ways, I shall remember my grandparents - and the things we did - as characters and incidents in a child's story-book, so I can talk to my children (and Piglett's) about the elders I was privileged to know.
P.S. As we were swapping remembrances, Piglett just informed me that she'd cheated (successfully) on chaar kola nu daan, a board game (like Ludo) that we used to play with our grandparents. I'm sure Dada is proud of her!
*** As a child brought up in a truly multi-cultural, multi-religious, multi-lingual environment, I have had many experiences of this sort, where I couldn't tell what culture I was experiencing, in that moment. I consider myself fortunate, and lucky to have a family that encouraged a multi-everything, truly secular, upbringing, and I know I owe that to my parents and grandparents.
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