The end of an era

I have been meaning to write about her for a while now. In fact, for the past year, whenever, in brief snatches, I met her during my travel to Mysore, I have wanted to say something, many things. She was born in 1925, and the kids & I had great fun calculating her age every year. For the past several years, she has claimed that she is 86 years old. As if time had stopped there for her. Although my sister, her eldest grandchild, always enjoyed a much closer relationship with her than I ever did, I have such rich memories of her.

My dad used to take me to school on his scooter everyday. It was a source of plenty frustration for me 'cause he was not to be hurried. And I wanted to get to school as early as I could, so I could play with my friends. On the way to school (and his college, which was next door), we would stop off at Paati's place. She would have a small cup of coffee & a bowl of milk cream ready for us. Though why one should stop literally 3 minutes after leaving home, I don't know. But that milk cream with sugar - which I love loved (still do), was amazing.

I wanted a salwar kameez for my birthday when I was 10. My mom would have none of it. I was a pint sized runt and she was convinced it would look terrible. Paati stitched me a pink and white thing. It was pretty awful actually but I enjoyed it nevertheless! She was super duper crafty - her crochet-ed pieces are still all over all our homes, I have jealously guarded it from marauding hands, and transported it through all my various moves. She converted all our old school uniforms into sturdy bags, which were so handy- back when plastic hadn't overtaken our lives, this was. (I have valiantly tried to do this... but my skills - both on the machine and in time management - are poor).

Somehow I remember this slightly dark place they lived in in Bangalore, where they had no fridge. She used to boil milk several times a day to ensure it wouldn't spoil. And she would describe all these recipes - many of them ways and means to stretch out the monthly budget a bit more, feed the hungry mouths somehow. Like her paruppu urundai kuzhambu - which, under her slightly garbled instructions, I made in my mom's house a few years ago, making my mom break out in hives thanks to the mess it created.

Slowly, over time, as her memory started to fade, we got into a routine where she would ask the same set of questions every time she saw me. She would take a nap and come out, having completely forgotten I was there, her eyes would light up in happiness (I don't recall her being too happy with me in the growing up years, but now, she was super duper proud of me and the kid, somehow, don't know  why!).
* When did you get here? (Just now, Paati)
* Are you staying long? (No Paati, have to leave tomorrow/day after/next week)
* What time do you leave for work? (9-ish)
* Do you finish off the cooking before you leave?
* How about the child's dabba?
* Are you home when she gets back from school?
* She is very smart like you, isn't she?
& repeat.
She would get very very worked up if I visited without the kid. Like the last time I saw her, in February. Where is the child, how can you leave her alone there, she kept asking me. I tried telling her that her dad could handle her, but she was never satisfied with that. Finally I cottoned on and said my mother-in-law is home. That made her happy.

Why do you call your daughter that - doesn't she have a proper name, she often asked me. This 'cause of the nickname we use at home for her - we have actually named her after our two grandfathers, one of whom is her husband, but she never recalls that. Sometimes I would explain this to her, hoping I guess, for some approbation. But she just said hmm, must have thought we are totally random, we 'modern' people.

She wasn't the type of grandma that was overly affectionate and coddling. In fact, when we played games with her, all those olden day games with dice and shells and stuff, she cheated quite rampantly :-) But 91 years is a long time, and especially in the past decade, unfortunately even as she was losing her memory rapidly, I had grown so close to her. It's hard to put into words. And it surprises me very much at times, I have always assumed that I preferred my simple & straight forward grandfather over her. But lately, I would find myself appreciating how very smart this lady was - I mean she was seriously intelligent - much more than others in the family.  I miss her very much, and I am deeply sad about the end of the era.

At more or less the exact time of her passing (in Mysore, in a hospital, a few weeks ago), I was eating a delectable basundi at Woodlands here in Chennai, a sweet I loved with all my little heart in my childhood. I haven't eaten it in a very long while. I really enjoyed it that day, almost as much as I used to enjoy the milk cream and sugar that Paati saved every morning for me...

Mum's the word

I was away this past weekend, attending a wedding, somehow feeling super tired, and catching up with family. I go months without talking to my aunts & uncles, and I only very rarely meet the relatives next removed. Life is busy and I don't get too down thinking about this, but when I see them it feels so good. Plus there is my grandmum, who is pretty awesome.

I am reading the Murakami (1Q84), and I needn't tell you how brilliant it is. Mum read a couple of chapters and decided its a book of short stories. Nothing I said (in Page 512 at that point of time), could convince her otherwise, so I let it go. Which is the best strategy sometimes. No big deal.

She started quizzing me about my early childhood memories. Now this is a tricky thing, right. Sis and I have to talk about this stuff with regular disclaimers that we don't blame her for anything. Not that anything bad happened to us, just the regular parts of growing up and so on, but mum, she is getting increasingly sensitive about this stuff.

So I told her innocuous things. Like I remember being three or so and sitting reciting the alphabet. I was on the living room couch, I remember. It was brown that year. Dad was in his favourite cane chair. I asked him after I got done 'was that capital letters or small?' Of course I don't think this is a pure memory because the story has been told many times in family circles. (As evidence of what, I don't know).

I remember being in our little garden. Early morning, checking out the dew drops, climbing on the gate, plucking the delicate white jasmines, praying, snuggling up to mum early morning inside the mosquito netting, yeah well, lots and lots of things. These are like snapshots in my brain. Not videos. So I have to order them chronologically now.

I was always super tiny. They sent me to a different school than my sister, for a little bit. Because it was closer to home. And it would be easier to not lose me despite my Thumbelina like size. Or something. Well, that school sucked big time and I regularly had to deal with boys who would take off their shorts and run around and all sorts of nonsense like that.

Not that I told my parents any of that. How was I to know? I thought that was how things were in schools. Finally someone figured out that this school was terrible and they pulled me out. I don't remember too much but I think I can picture the scene where a bunch of us kids were taken by one of the maids hired for the purpose, to the school, in the morning.

My mum was always very busy. She was studying for her M.Ed. (when I picked up random words like 'curriculum' and 'corroborate' from her in my Thumbelina avatar). Then she was working at an Institute for Language Studies (where I hung out for ages after school amidst the mango and banyan trees with my quiet friend Vijayalakshmi-with the short cropped stylish hair-style).

Then the old folk at home fell sick one by one and she was busy dealing with that (while I branched out and went to school and figured I was good in studies but not so much in eating and waited the whole day to snuggle up to her in the early mornings). Then she started on her Phd (and I really think I wanted to help her, though all I did was grade the numerous exams she gave kids for the sake of her data).

Although she is right here, few hours away, I miss her a lot. I want to tell her everything. I want to sit down and have a good cry on her lap. But I don't. I spent a lot of time talking to her this weekend. We discussed family politics. Some philosophical musing type stuff. We talked about the kids. We talked about the wedding. And my work. And her apartment. Neither of us talked about ourselves, our feelings, as usual.

(And I still haven't directly told her I ran the Ultra Marathon in December)