Dear Writer,
I spent the last day with my grandmother in Patna and decided to listen to her stories instead of telling my own. When you meet someone you love after a long time, and you carry this guilt of not being there, words don’t come out naturally. Silence is your apology, especially to someone who’s so kind that they never make you feel guilty.
Despite the gap of two generations between us, we talked like childhood friends. We were childhood friends! She was the first person to hold me after my parents. I was a child, without teeth — much like her now. Roles have interchanged, even though she has dentures to help her eat and speak. As we sat in the verandah that leads into the garden, which grandfather lovingly crafted for her more than twenty years ago, she recounted stories of my father and grandfather. How my father was a menace as a child — always getting hurt during play, never to be found studying. How my grandfather was like a sage, calm and kind, never scolding his kids, leaving that task to the grandmother. ‘I have beaten your father a lot. Such a nuisance, he was. Now that you’re older, I can share all this,’ she said, laughing. Her eyes watered as she spoke. I asked her more about the grandfather.
Theirs was an arranged marriage. Grandfather was from Darbhanga, seven years older than her, the oldest son of a renowned doctor and a veterinary doctor with the Bihar Government. Grandmother was from Patna, youngest daughter of a Magistrate, studying Masters in Hindi Literature. She left her studies after marriage for 5 years, until two of her kids were born and admitted to school. She loved Hindi so much that she couldn’t stay away from academics for long. She went back to college after 5 years, completed her studies and exchanged long shy letters with grandfather, who would be posted in remote villages. ‘Do you want to see photos?’ With the excitement of a child, she grabbed her walking stick, walked till the almirah and brought out their black and white wedding album. Grandmother hidden behind a ghoonghat, just her nose showing with a big ring, and the awkward grandfather standing tall in a Khadi suit next to her. ‘You have got your grandfather’s nose, do you see?’ she said, pointing her shivering finger at his prominent nose. I smiled. ‘He looks so young,’ she said to herself more than to me. A gloomy blush appeared on her face. She tried to change the topic but failed miserably. No matter how much she itched, she couldn’t turn the pages of the album. Her eyes flitted to the wall, where hung a photo of the grandfather in his mid-sixties, taken just a month before his demise in 1996. ‘I am now 82, 15 years older than him,’ my grandmother muttered after a long pause. This time, she shut the album with a sigh.
I was out of words. The entire afternoon I thought about the heartbreaks and the heartburns I faced at the hands of my lovers. How I had felt that it was the end of the world for me. How I had cried countless nights only to move on one fine morning. How I felt nobody would know a pain as profound. How I wrote poems after poems in mourning. Then I looked at the grandmother—her poise, her calm, her quiet. When was the last time I saw her shedding tears mourning her 22-year-old love-loss? Her tears won’t be found on pillows. Her poems won’t be found in diaries. She had just one day to express all her sorrow in public — that funeral from 20 years ago. The grief is now held deep within, never to be revealed to any of us. Love is a private affair for her. The tsunami of heartaches is a personal calamity that she braves alone. Never asking for a therapist, or a friend. Even the ophthalmologist doesn’t know if the water that flows out of her eyes at night is because of cataract or pain. I looked at her and in that moment, I knew exactly why she was called grand of all mothers. In the evening, I took a bucket and watered the garden. Just like my grandfather would.
Today, as you finish reading this, write a story of love of an old couple. It could be fiction, or a true story of your grandparents or anybody you know. Post with #GrandStory in the caption on YourQuote. Water the garden of your old memories before they get old. I will see you tomorrow.
For now, keep this quote safe with you: ‘Forty is the old age of youth; fifty the youth of old age.’ — Victor Hugo
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