We all have a person who we have loved and lost. Someone
who’s departure has left behind a void that no amount of time or distractions
could fill. Funny thing people say that time is the best healer, but they
forget that time is also infinite. Infinite, yes indeed, for certain grieves,
no matter how long the event may have been feels just the same.
I always knew that the death of my grandmother has had a
severe impact on me but it not until the previous evening that it became even
the more apparent to me. I thought that maybe age has toughen me, matured me
and definitely strengthen me, but all of that came crashing when just the sight
of her Saree, peeping out carelessly through the last shelf of the closet sent
tear waves across my eyes so much so that it became physically impossible for
me to hold back and I let myself have a little cry. You see, growing up, my
grandmother was my constant companion. She was neither overtly affectionate nor
was she too pampering, it wouldn’t be difficult to pass her off as someone
significantly lacking warmth for a person of her age. After all aren’t we
programmed to expect the elderly to be all warm and cuddly giving out the smell
of prescribed medication? Well that wasn’t she. She was this silent, confident, resilient person
whose presence could both put you at ease as well ensure that you stay
well-behaved. She was born in Quetta, north western province of Baluchistan,
stayed there till she was ten or maybe slightly more. I have always assumed
that she could speak a bit of Pashto though maybe lack of practice has made her
lose command over it. She would often speak about her childhood spent in
Quetta, the bone-chilling winter nights that she spent wrapped in a blanket
with her two younger sisters, the furry dogs that her mother was so fond of,
the ones that slept with her each night, the ones whom they had to give away
when they moved from Quetta to Muzzafarpur in Bihar, India. She would speak
about the time spent there but I mainly paid attention to the part where she
would mention the haunting experiences she had staying at a place which was
ravaged by a deadly earthquake in 1934. Though she wasn’t around when the
actual earthquake took place, she would say that the number of unnatural deaths
that it left behind, had left an eerie feel to that entire place. You see, she
wasn’t a superstitious person but did believe in positive and negative energy. She could never tell a bedtime story, she
wasn’t the kind who could spin a yarn. What she could share, were her
experiences.
The fact that she was a graduate from St. Xavier’s College,
Ranchi, something that wasn’t too common during that timeline ensured a thought
process way ahead of her times. Even marriage and three children that followed
couldn’t break the aloof disposition that she had; though she was particularly
close to her youngest child, her only daughter. She was an avid reader who
counted Mahashweta Devi as one of her favored authors. In cinema she preferred
a tragedy over a light-hearted feature for it always left her with more food
for thought. Thinking, yes! That was one of her constant. One of her all-time
favorite movie was this yesteryears Hindi classic called Bandhini starring Nutan (by all means, do goggle her).
I would always want to believe that I was her favorite. It
gives me a certain kick to think she deemed me worthy of her affection and to
that extent. No am not needy as a person but come on, who doesn’t seek the
approval of someone who they look up? And if there is a chance to be their
favorite, then might as well grab it. I always vied for her attention, so much
so that I loved falling sick just so she would look after me. She always
did. I followed her around like one of
those dogs that she had in Quetta, just that I wasn’t half as cute but yes,
just as devoted.
And why wouldn’t I? After all she was the one who thought me
not to be ashamed of anything about myself.
I will start off with the most pedestrian of worries that I had as an
adolescent but what now feels like a blessing. Growing up, I had breasts larger
than most kids of my age and my mother made sure that I felt amply embarrassed
of them. I would be asked to wear tops twice my size so that they would be
concealed; round-necked T-shirts were a strict no-no and so wear lighter shades
of color. You see my mother always aspired for a flat-chested daughter, but
alas! She got me. I surely can laugh about it now, but back then, it wasn’t the
best feeling to grow up with.
This is where my grandmother stepped in with her steely
sustenance, not only did she encourage me to dress the way I desired, but also
made sure that I never regretted my body.
Learning to appreciate one’s body is probably one of the most essential
parts of growing up.
I learnt how to be honest from her. I learnt how to feel self-assured from
her. She taught me the power and
importance of silence. She would never resort to screaming; just a glare was
all that she would use to restrain someone. And restrained they would be. She was
extremely observant whose analysis of the things around her was impeccable. She
would always ask me to pen down my thoughts. Well that’s one advice of hers
that I ardently follow.
I would always look forward Christmas for she would get me
cake and buy me a Christmas tree. We would make purchases of those serial
lights to put around the balcony and a big star to hang around the doorway.
December used to be my favorite month until I lost her on the 3rd of
December, 2008, 6am in the morning to be precise. I was 17 then, am 23 now. The
pain still the same, the dread for the last month of the year, almost the same,
but I have made my peace. I don’t pray to any God anymore, all my prayers are
addressed to her. It’s like IM’ing but just that her replies are not in words
but actions. Whenever I miss her, I just look at myself in the mirror and try
searching for that bit of her left in me somewhere. I don’t have a single
picture of her in my room or anywhere, for why limit her presence in a piece of
photograph when she lives on in me, my blood and my mind. She is my ideal, my
support system, the one for whom I shamelessly cry, my grandmother- Anima
Sanyal.
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