WHEN GRANDPARENTS ENTER HOME
“Nobody can do for little children what grandparents do.
Grandparents sort of sprinkle stardust over
the lives of little children.”
Alex Haley
Some five years ago, our
27-year-old son – our only offspring - decided to chuck his job and start his
creative venture on his own. Along with that, he made one more decision: to
live with his maternal grandparents, who lived on their own, minutes away from
where we lived. I was a bit apprehensive and expressed my feelings before my
son in private. “Dad, just chill,” was how he calmed me down, “I will come
back, if I face any problem.”
Forget ‘problem’, the
grandson and his grandparents have been getting along like a house on fire!
When I see this, awestruck and confused, I think of what Claudette Colbert once
said, her tongue tucked firmly in cheeks:
“Why do grandparents and their grandchildren get along so well?
They have the same enemy – the mother!”
Well, my wife hasn’t
read this Post, yet!
About forty years ago, here
in Bombay, when I had decided to be on my own doing what I loved – teaching –
all my fears had suddenly dissolved. I was new in this city and knew none. But,
that one decision – to burn all the bridges behind me – seemed to have made way
for me… I was so full of enthusiasm and initiative, and least concerned about
my next meal, that people started promoting me through a good word-of-mouth…
One person led me to another, th
One such good soul put
in a good word about me in the household of Dr. V.K. Iya, then a Group Director
(Isotope) in BARC. So, one evening, I showed up at their bungalow in Saras Baug,
just outside the BARC colony. Rekha, his daughter, was pursuing Hotel Management
and (being from a Science background) was struggling with the subject of Accountancy.
It was some very rudimentary stuff in Accountancy, which took hardly a few weeks to complete. I did it free of charge, inspired by Napoleon Hill’s famous
philosophy of ‘Going the extra mile'. But,
it was destined to forge one of the longest family-friendships. One reason for
this enduring friendship was Mrs. Iya, Rekha’s gracious mother. She, a fine
teacher herself, would keep encouraging me. I needed that faith and
encouragement the most in those days. Years passed by… Rekha got married to her
college sweetheart, Kuldeep, gave birth to their sons, Siddanth and Vedanth…
moved to a dozen cities in India and abroad... but, all the while being anchored robustly
by Mrs. Iya’s love and care.
I was also privileged
to be friends with Rekha’s elder sister, Vidya, who is now a well-known
Cardiologist. She is married to, again, her college sweetheart, Dr. Lohit Suratkal,
a Nephrologist. Their only daughter, Laasya, moved to Singapore to pursue her
studies, and eventually, started working there. Vidya’s bungalow is a stone’s throw from her parents’. This proved to be a providential decision, considering
the old age and health issues, with which, the family would have to grapple with
subsequently…
Dr. Iya is in his nineties, now. Mrs. Iya passed away a couple of days ago, after enduring a lot of pain and
anxious moments in and out of the hospitals. But, then, in death, she seems to
be at peace. Being a progressive woman, she would express her desire to have a quiet and simple funeral. She would also express her wish to donate her body to
the hospital where Vidya had studied. Now, thanks to this Covid lockdown, she
was laid to rest in a manner even simpler and quieter than how she had desired. He body, however, was too withered to be donated to the hospital… It was laid to
final rest!
Rekha’s family couldn’t
make it to the funeral. However, Siddhant, her elder son, was blessed to be
able to make it for the important final rites. She put together a video of touching
tributes from the closest members of their family. She shared it with me, too.
While all the tributes were very moving, I was particularly moved by the ones
from Laasya, Vidya’s daughter, and Siddhant, Rekha’s son. I took Rekha’s
permission to share them in this Blog. As Mrs. Iya has gone off to eternal rest, I remember
what Gene Perret said so coloufully:
“On the seventh day, God rested;
His grandchildren must’ve been out of town!”
ON THOSE LONELY NIGHTS
Siddhant Bhartee
The whole family told
us to call her ‘Awwa’. ‘Call her Awwa!’ ‘This is Awwa’.
She said – ‘Aap mujhe
Nani bulao’ (Call me Nani).
No one knows why.
This appellation is
used primarily in North India and, perhaps, she felt a commonality between my
father’s origins in Punjab
and her own upbringing
in Delhi. This was before I moved to Delhi
and later learned Hindi
from her.
My first memory of
Nani is lying down between my grandparents
and watching Mahabharat
on television… B.R Chopra’s Mahabharat.
It was the episode
where Bhima kills Hidimba and marries
his sister Hidimbaa.
While other kids were
told bedtime stories from the Brothers Grimm,
Nani regaled me with
exploits of Krishna and Balaram.
I grew up on the
heroic tales of Arjuna, Hanuman and Dashratha-putra Ram. And I am lucky. In a
family of west-loving intellectuals,
I owe my Hindu-ness
and India-ness to her.
The first shloka that
emerged from my lips was ‘Shantakaram…’
from Vishnu Sahasranamam,
after hearing her repeat it daily in the kitchen.
She would talk about
great Hindus like Ramakrishna Paramhansa,
Vivekananda and Adi Sankara.
There were numerous
Amar Chitra Kathas and other patriotic books
lying around the
capacious living room awaiting perusal.
These helped steep a young
mind in ancient and potent wisdom.
This wisdom was to be
the well-waters of which were to give me rejuvenation
in the dark times to
come.
The Bhagavata Gita and
Rajagopalachari’s Mahabharat were two such books.
She knew each of our
favorite dishes, be it Avial and Brinjal for Laasya,
Dosa and Sambar rice
for Vedanth or Mysore Paak and Puliodare for me.
Her choicest dishes
were Akki roti and Rava idli.
Breakfast was an
enjoyable affair in the Saras Baug household
which many of you have
been fortunate to partake of.
When she was mobile
and could eat solid food, I would buy her samosas and kachoris which we would
eat together.
She would crunch
loudly while chewing, like a little turtle.
My love for gardening
came from her and she would display her orchids
with pride. Padding barefoot
in the garden was fun
on lazy summer afternoons
followed with coffee.
I loved the softness
of her cheeks and would often kiss and pet her.
She was my doll,
bomma.
It’s strange how a
living, breathing person vanishes the very next moment … and that’s the beauty
of life!
I am lucky that till
the age of 29, I could spend ample time with my grandmother, my favorite person
in the world and have my heart’s fill of love, conversations and memories.
I could recognize her
knock on the door.
We never had a single fight
and no harsh words were spoken between us.
It was a relationship
based on mutual respect
and the channels of
communication were always open.
I could call her by
name and speak however I wanted to. There was no insistence on respect or
propriety.
An embrace was always
there for both sides to run into.
She openly called me her
favorite, her ‘Bhagwan’ to the amusement of others.
It was befitting that
I was the one who gave heat to my Nani’s pyre.
All I could see was a bundle
wrapped in plastic on which I placed twigs, ghee and then lit with flames.
I couldn’t see her
face one last time… Visuals are secondary though.
I have a feeling in me
that is filled with her, a place called Shrimati
that I cannot and will
not share with anyone...
It’s private and
between the two of us.
And on those lonely
nights, when I’m unable to sleep,
I’ll look out into the
black of night and a vague jumble of memories
will cascade upon me.
And I’ll strain to make sense of it.
And then, I’ll
remember the feelings beneath and feel better.
This feeling will
guide me toward a place of well-being.
Nani, you are my
mother… I miss you mom.
I will meet you again. But not yet. Not yet.
WHERE
TIME ALWAYS SEEMED
TO
STAND COMPLETELY STILL
Laasya
Suratkal
How
do you write a pithy summary about the loss of a mother?
Words struggle to capture the
memories and emotions
that bubble up when I think of my
Nani.
She was a constant through my
childhood.
Every single day after school, I
was received by Nani’s loving arms
and warm fresh food. My parents
knew they could rely on her
to be there for their young
daughter when they were occupied
long days at work.
My grandparents instructed me,
amused me, entertained me, loved me
and never let me feel the absence
of my parents when I was at Saras Baug.
Looking back, my cousins and I
could display the most brattish behavior
or play any number of pranks on
our grandparents
and they would still patiently
welcome us back the next day.
As a child, I was bemused at how
two individuals, as different
from each other as my
grandparents, could spend a lifetime together.
Nani was ever-practical,
concerned with the daily operations
of running a household and caring
for small children
and Tata was consumed by the ways
of the world,
always talking about science or
politics.
Tata’s morbid sense of humour
would rarely sit well with Nani’s solemnity.
I would persistently ask Tata if
they had an arranged marriage
or a love marriage, and he would
joke back to me,
“We had a hate marriage”.
However, as I grew older, I
started to appreciate and marvel
at how they were so dependent on
each other in small ways,
at how even a brief absence of
one would put the other in such discomfort,
at how while they teased and
taunted each other when together,
they formed a complete unit, her
yin to his yang.
My heart bleeds to think of one
without the other.
The hardest part of moving to
Singapore was definitely leaving my parents –
but leaving my grandparents
behind was a close second.
Over the years, as I started
working, visits back became briefer and briefer.
With every goodbye, I would be
shaken by the thought t
hat it could be the last time.
My grandparents’ health would be
frailer with every visit
and I would marvel at the strong,
brave front my mother put up –
being there for them one moment
as a daughter,
the next moment in her capacity
as a doctor.
I dreamed of a day that I could
take a break from the stresses of daily life
and go back to my childhood,
spending long summer days at Saras Baug
where time always seemed to stand
completely still.
Sadly, that remained a distant
childish dream!
For a matriarch and life-giver,
who was so programmed to put the needs of everyone else over her own,
it hurts that we could not
provide her with a few moments of comfort,
relief or salvation in her last
years of anguish.
I could not be there to soothe
her and hold her hand one last time.
I received the news of her demise
over the phone and a childhood of love dissolved before my eyes,
with no way of doing anything about
it.
Time eroded a fine lady and the
wounds are still raw.
We can only hope that time plays
its part to heal as well,
so we can look back at all the
good Nani did in this world
and learn from her spirit of
service, selflessness and unconditional love.
“When
grandparents enter the door,” said Ogden Nash, "discipline
flies out of the window.” Obviously, Nash hadn’t entered the Iya household,
as I, and many like me, had...
Rest well, Mrs.
Iya. Yes, your grandchildren are out of town; but, they are safe and disciplined…
Rest assured.
GERALD D’CUNHA
Pic.: listden.com
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