Tomorrow is going to be a big day...
[** Februrary 29th, 2008 was the first ever Student Conference on Global Challenages at Drexel.]
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Daadi Maa
"Hoshiyaari se jaana!" Be careful.
Those would be my grandmother's words every time I'd step out of the house, even if I was just going to take the trash outside. They still echo in my ears, even though it's been three years since she said them to me last. And it was when I was boarding the plane to United States to chase a dream my parents dreamed for me. To win the future they so willed.
I was very restless and kept looking back every now and then from the immigration line. I always found her looking at me, with her eyes enlarged through the bifocals and her hands clasped to her chest. Smiling, and waving. She always did that. She watched people go; she liked seeing them off. Literally. That was one of the first things I learned from her. She always stood by the window and waved, and only went inside when my school bus turned the corner and she couldn’t see it anymore. And I always looked back. She was there. She would always be there.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Watch people from the window as they leave.”
“You never know who might look back for an extra smile. It makes someone’s day brighter. Besides, I like to watch people walking.”
“Why?”
“There is a lot you can tell about a person’s state of mind from the way they walk.”
To this day, my friends tell me how weird I am for noticing how people walk.
“Apna dhyan rakhna, theek?” Take care of yourself.
“Ji, Dadi.”
Dadi. Hindi for grandmother. I’ve called her that my entire life. It wasn’t until I was seven that I actually learned her name.
My childhood was short, but very colorful. There was no TV, no radio, and of course, no computer. When I was ten, I saw my first movie at the theatre. I read, but not often. Childhood for me meant running across fields of wheat and mustard to get to the nearest ‘Cricket pitch’, haggling for bangles at the Bazaar, making paper boats when it rained, flying kites when it didn’t, firecrackers on Diwali, colors on Holi, and my grandmother’s stories. Of all those moments and memories, the ones with her smell the warmest—mustard oil, basil, and soil.
She was my greatest ally. She knew I didn’t always obey my parents unlike every good daughter, and yet she never gave me away. My parents weren’t very secular. If I showed even the slightest appreciation for some other religion, I would get dirty looks from them. But I loved the sound of Farsi and Arabic prayers from the Quran, even though I had no idea what they meant. I loved waking up to the collective sounds of the kirtans and azaans. Sometimes when my parents weren’t home, I’d take a small rug, estimate where West was, kneel and say that one sentence out loud which I knew I would land me in serious trouble, if my parents heard me. La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. I would straighten up to find goosebumps on my arms, and I loved the thrill. She saw me do this once as she walked by my room, and pretended to look away.
“You are quite the rebel.”
“Oh come on Dadi! I am not. I am a good girl.”
“Being a rebel doesn’t make you bad.”
“No?”
“Not if you’re honest.”
It was hard to believe that she was illiterate. The wisdom in the simplicity of her words was unbelievable, almost. It made more sense to me than most things my parents and my teachers taught me. She became my dearest confidant soon.
“Dadi, what if I don’t turn out the way my parents want me to?”
“As in?”
“As in what if I end up choosing a life they disapprove of. What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know what will actually happen, but I know what you will do.”
“What will I do?”
“If it’s worth it, you’ll fight for it, as they say.”
“Fight my parents?”
“If it’s worth it.”
I miss her. I miss her stories, her missing teeth, her enlarged eyes, and most of all, her laughter. I laugh like her, I am told. Thank God. At least, I am not the only one with a predisposition for hysterics.
“You laugh like a horse, Mini.”
“So do you, Dadi.”
“Indeed. But horses are such spirited animals. So wild and free.”
“Dadi, I sometimes wonder what would happen if I looked like a cow.”
“Then we’d have to put you in that shed with the rest of them.”
“Would I also have to give milk?”
“Only on Mondays.”
We would crack up and peals of laughter echoed through the house.
The years have caught up with her now. Old age and infirmity has gnawed at her body. She is thin and frail and is counting down the years she has left to live, she tells me. She is just recuperating from massive blood loss and we’re talking on the phone.
“Oh pshaw, Dadi! You are going to be just fine. You just don’t take care of yourself enough.”
“But my time has also come, no? And what’s that in your voice?”
“What is in my voice?”
“You are sad.”
“No, I’m not. How are you feeling now?”
“What happened?”
Sigh.
“Nothing. I just…I just kinda… fell out with one of my closest friends.”
“Oh Mini...This isn’t the first time. You and your hot blood. Maafi maangi?”
“Haan, maangi.”
“Toh phir koi nahi, sab theek ho jaayegaa.” Everything will be ok.
“Ji, Dadi."
"Mini, I will go soon an—"
"So, what did you cook today?"
As I talk to her, I wonder if I should start counting down the years too. It doesn’t help to know that she might just breathe her last and I won’t be at her bedside. Perhaps I should start preparing myself for the inevitable. But I don’t want to.
Not just yet.
Those would be my grandmother's words every time I'd step out of the house, even if I was just going to take the trash outside. They still echo in my ears, even though it's been three years since she said them to me last. And it was when I was boarding the plane to United States to chase a dream my parents dreamed for me. To win the future they so willed.
I was very restless and kept looking back every now and then from the immigration line. I always found her looking at me, with her eyes enlarged through the bifocals and her hands clasped to her chest. Smiling, and waving. She always did that. She watched people go; she liked seeing them off. Literally. That was one of the first things I learned from her. She always stood by the window and waved, and only went inside when my school bus turned the corner and she couldn’t see it anymore. And I always looked back. She was there. She would always be there.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Watch people from the window as they leave.”
“You never know who might look back for an extra smile. It makes someone’s day brighter. Besides, I like to watch people walking.”
“Why?”
“There is a lot you can tell about a person’s state of mind from the way they walk.”
To this day, my friends tell me how weird I am for noticing how people walk.
“Apna dhyan rakhna, theek?” Take care of yourself.
“Ji, Dadi.”
Dadi. Hindi for grandmother. I’ve called her that my entire life. It wasn’t until I was seven that I actually learned her name.
My childhood was short, but very colorful. There was no TV, no radio, and of course, no computer. When I was ten, I saw my first movie at the theatre. I read, but not often. Childhood for me meant running across fields of wheat and mustard to get to the nearest ‘Cricket pitch’, haggling for bangles at the Bazaar, making paper boats when it rained, flying kites when it didn’t, firecrackers on Diwali, colors on Holi, and my grandmother’s stories. Of all those moments and memories, the ones with her smell the warmest—mustard oil, basil, and soil.
She was my greatest ally. She knew I didn’t always obey my parents unlike every good daughter, and yet she never gave me away. My parents weren’t very secular. If I showed even the slightest appreciation for some other religion, I would get dirty looks from them. But I loved the sound of Farsi and Arabic prayers from the Quran, even though I had no idea what they meant. I loved waking up to the collective sounds of the kirtans and azaans. Sometimes when my parents weren’t home, I’d take a small rug, estimate where West was, kneel and say that one sentence out loud which I knew I would land me in serious trouble, if my parents heard me. La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. I would straighten up to find goosebumps on my arms, and I loved the thrill. She saw me do this once as she walked by my room, and pretended to look away.
“You are quite the rebel.”
“Oh come on Dadi! I am not. I am a good girl.”
“Being a rebel doesn’t make you bad.”
“No?”
“Not if you’re honest.”
It was hard to believe that she was illiterate. The wisdom in the simplicity of her words was unbelievable, almost. It made more sense to me than most things my parents and my teachers taught me. She became my dearest confidant soon.
“Dadi, what if I don’t turn out the way my parents want me to?”
“As in?”
“As in what if I end up choosing a life they disapprove of. What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know what will actually happen, but I know what you will do.”
“What will I do?”
“If it’s worth it, you’ll fight for it, as they say.”
“Fight my parents?”
“If it’s worth it.”
I miss her. I miss her stories, her missing teeth, her enlarged eyes, and most of all, her laughter. I laugh like her, I am told. Thank God. At least, I am not the only one with a predisposition for hysterics.
“You laugh like a horse, Mini.”
“So do you, Dadi.”
“Indeed. But horses are such spirited animals. So wild and free.”
“Dadi, I sometimes wonder what would happen if I looked like a cow.”
“Then we’d have to put you in that shed with the rest of them.”
“Would I also have to give milk?”
“Only on Mondays.”
We would crack up and peals of laughter echoed through the house.
The years have caught up with her now. Old age and infirmity has gnawed at her body. She is thin and frail and is counting down the years she has left to live, she tells me. She is just recuperating from massive blood loss and we’re talking on the phone.
“Oh pshaw, Dadi! You are going to be just fine. You just don’t take care of yourself enough.”
“But my time has also come, no? And what’s that in your voice?”
“What is in my voice?”
“You are sad.”
“No, I’m not. How are you feeling now?”
“What happened?”
Sigh.
“Nothing. I just…I just kinda… fell out with one of my closest friends.”
“Oh Mini...This isn’t the first time. You and your hot blood. Maafi maangi?”
“Haan, maangi.”
“Toh phir koi nahi, sab theek ho jaayegaa.” Everything will be ok.
“Ji, Dadi."
"Mini, I will go soon an—"
"So, what did you cook today?"
As I talk to her, I wonder if I should start counting down the years too. It doesn’t help to know that she might just breathe her last and I won’t be at her bedside. Perhaps I should start preparing myself for the inevitable. But I don’t want to.
Not just yet.
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