The guardian

View from outside the door

 As I step out of the house after running all over the place to gather things, breakfast in one hand, a bag in another, and fretting about the morning status call that I am getting late to, I see it. Calm and composed. Steady and firm. It instantly eases me down. I feel the warmth of its embrace and almost hear its encouraging whispers. Its there, watching us live our lives. Silently. Unconditionally.

There is something about the unwavering presence of a large bounteous tree that re-instills faith in me, in the people and in this world. When I pass under its shade when coming back home, or when I am lazily strolling nearby, watching the geese family quacking merrily under its cover, I am reminded of my blessings and of the people who make it happen. Maybe because its just like those people. Not much ado. No bold promises. No loud declarations. Just silent assurances. They exist around you, like the air, like this tree, helping you breathe. Helping you live. For some it is God. For me its the two men in my life. I think this tree is a reminder of them. And an inspiration to be that tree for someone.

To be a Guardian.

Talking of guardians reminds me of Ajji and the culture of elderly presence in Indian households. Grandmas and Grandpas. Their wisdom, knowledge and old-fashioned charisma is in a way essential to keep the family values from dying. My family was once brimming with septuagenarians. Any wedding, and the first row was dotted with silver-haired heads. My cousin often joked that that was a danger zone. That if you happened to walk past them, there was always somebody who needed water, some-busy-body with an unapologetic curiosity asking penetrating questions, and if you hadn't already done, you would be obliged to touch their feet out of respect and melt in a volley of rough, awkward hugs. These were just the harmless side effects of having a generation amongst us that are a living reminder of our roots. They are the last straw that binds us as one huge family. Thanks to them, we know who our dad's uncles are, what kind of relationship they shared and what it took to keep them all together.

The number of silver-haired heads are getting fewer and fewer with passing years. And it scares me that one day, the remainder of us will just disintegrate and fade without our kids ever knowing who we grew up with and what our families looked like.

G - Grandma



Ajji enjoying her Doli-ride in Mahur.

She was on her bed, her bent frame pouring over some book. It was dark and she hadn't put on the lights yet. "Ajji, its so dark and you are reading. Why didn't you turn on the lights ?"
"Ha.. let me just finish up this para" she replied, absent-mindedly.

That's the first image that comes to my mind when I think of her. Neatly oiled long silver hair, rolled into a small bun. Fresh powdered face. Always clad in a light colored cotton saree. And the reading posture. She used to read everything she could lay her hands on. Milap, fursat ka panna, bhagvad gita, magazines, even English newspapers. She can speak English, in broken sentences. I have vague memories of her reading out the English newspaper to my grandfather whenever we got late from school. Grandpa making us read it all over again was a different matter altogether. It was a matter of pride for two little girls.

Conversations with her were very interesting. She used to be all ears about what we had to tell, open to ideas and held no prejudice in her thinking. She always had an anecdote or a verse up her sleeve which she promptly used according to the situation. Very impressive memory she has. She told small stories from our mythology whenever she had a point to make. Never did she thrust her opinion on anyone of us. Never did we hear her complain about anything. Except that she wasn't able to help mom as much as she wanted to.

Sometimes we would hear her sing. Either in the middle of the night, when sleep eluded her. Or when she was all alone and we returned unexpectedly in the afternoon from wherever we had been. She could have been a singer or anything she would have wanted to be. Learning was ingrained in her. And the thirst for being useful. At the age of 75, she used to clean her bathroom herself, and wash her blouse and petticoat when the bai took leave.

One other thing that I admired about her was her open mindedness. I am not sure if it was because she was well-read or if it was her inherent nature, but she was modern in her outlook. The biggest testimony of this fact is she readily accepting my marriage to Sush. And being happy about it. The first inter-caste marriage in our family.

And how can I not talk about her most characteristic feature!? She always has this need to cough, either when she has a mouthful, or when drinking water or when laughing. And this makes my dad go bonkers. He has a wild imagination when it comes to this and his subsequent actions are driven by the assumption that she is going to choke and might die. Like coming to her running from wherever he is or urgently dispatching people to get water and what-not, or closing his eyes and waiting for the worst to happen. And when things slowly begin to settle down,
"Eat slow will ya?! Nobody is eating your food and No! Stop talking while you are coughing for God's sake! You always have something to say when you cannot! "

It doesn't stop here. What starts as a stifled cough slowly snowballs into incessant coughing. Something like this CoughCoughCoughCoughCough . And the most consistent fact about this episode is, it always ends with a sneeze. Three to be precise.

I dedicated this another post to her. You can read it here.

Its funny how some memories are ingrained in our sub-conscious mind. Something we never gave a second glance at or thought long enough. For example, the kind of laugh they laughed or how they sat in the verandah and gazed into nothingness or how they drank their tea or the look on their face when they got angry. Just a few simple things about them that belonged to them as a whole. And when you remember them, it leaves you all warm and fuzzy. Just like how I am feeling now.

So, here is to Ajji. Her name is Prabha, which means Light. She is 80 now and going strong. All I wish for her is a smooth ride hereon.


PS : Ajji is Grandma in Marathi.

Normal is so not good.

 

 

“I have swollen feet! I have to pee 15 times a day! My stomach rumbles all day. I feel breathless as we speak! I can almost hear my heart beat. And the doctor says everything is normal?!”

My 80-year-old grandmother was disappointed.