Grandma And Me

Every grandma of this world in itself is a story. Mine was no different. She was 70 plus yrs old while I was not even a teenager. She had a pleasant aura to herself. Her name was tattooed on her wrinkly forearm. Eyes had thick pair of glasses. Her quietness was louder than her words. She gracefully wore her white saree which had little florals here and there. Having a fixed routine was her basic need. No demands at all. There wasn’t much word exchange between both of us or anybody. But there was a strange connection between me and her. Her eyes told how much she adored me. Observing her from distance was my greatest delight. She was a silent guide, a foundation block for everybody in the house. Her soft and gentle movements were no less than an unwritten poetry.

Her morning always began with making tea on her favorite stove, which she guarded like a child. I remember there used to be a cat who would accompany her during morning chores. My grandma was indifferent towards it, neither she patted nor she shooed it away. But the cat, to my wonder, use to enjoy close company of her, who otherwise was scary. I think, they both were compatible with each other. With grandma’s lowered fixed gaze and rhythmic movements, grandma would churn butter out of the buttermilk with her old mechanical system of rope and a wooden churner. It’s calming and meditative sound in a still morning would beat any relaxation music in this world.

She had a couple of friends for company. One of them I remember used to come and sit with her and ask for her snuff, a powder made out of tobacco that had to be inhaled through the nose. She had this weird child-like curiosity to ask people whether they were married and how many kids they had. People obliged her since she was an elderly person to them. They would answer her questions without any hesitation. She had this special sweet native language accent to her tone while speaking to people.

She did not do too many chores in a day but also didn’t depend on anybody else for her work. She was an epitome of stability which I still feel in me. Doing her laundry was her hobby, I think. Her clothes use to be neat and clean like her bed. She was a woman of not many words, but she would always ask me “will you cry after I die”. sometimes she would hum what sounded like a folk song from a far distant land. She had enough fun in her to play Ludo with us kids. Perhaps, the memories of her are lovely and gentle.

I wish I had known she would mean a different world of inspiration to me.