“Speaking of love without the actual words, I remember coming downstairs around 5 PM every evening to find my grandparents sharing tea at the dining table as per their daily routine a few years ago. Chai for Nani, and coffee for Nana. My grandmother needed dentures by this point but hated them and never wore them unless a photograph was about to be taken; she would not even wear them to eat and therefore stuck to softer foods. My grandfather would pour out a bowl of chivda (Indian trail mix, if you will) for my grandmother, and then painstakingly discard every single peanut in the bowl into a separate pile that he would consume later on her behalf. I have never seen my grandparents verbally express their contentment with each other, never heard them say ‘I love you’, but… they don’t need really need the words. They say it everyday through the little things they do together and for each other.”
23 December, 2021
Nana passed away yesterday. We’re in Indore now to be with Nani and extended family, to mourn Nana’s death and celebrate his life. I feel more okay at the moment. It was scary seeing him like that. It was scarier seeing everyone who loved him seeing him like that. When I first heard the news, all I could think about was how Baba must be feeling, and how he would put those feelings aside to take care of everyone else first, even though Nana was his father. Baba will be strong for everybody, but I hoped he would let himself feel what he needed to feel. And I started crying, and then Baba came up the stairs to hug me and comfort me, without realizing that his need to do that, to put my needs before his own, was the reason I was crying in the first place.
Once everyone had paid their respects, before they took Nana away for the funeral, my uncle announced that there was one last thing that needed to be done, an important letter that had to be shared. Then, my cousin took out the card that I’d made for my grandparents for their anniversary last year, and read the above piece out loud to the crowd. And I started bawling, because I did not see that coming. I’ve been thinking about that letter all day, about how pure what Nani-Nana had was, about how Nani needs to be protected from her own routine, because it can never be the same again. Every time she sits down for a cup of chai and realizes she must take out the biscuit box and arrange her toast and Parle-G by herself, that simple action will remind her of him. The rest of us never really got a chance to take care of Nani, because the two of them made the most doting couple we’ve ever seen, my mum says. Now, it’s our turn to look after her.
Everyone keeps talking about how Nana was so quintessentially Nana until the very end. He went for a walk that morning, taking his usual route. Read his newspaper. Did chores around the house. He died suddenly, unexpectedly. Knowing him, it was the best way for him to go. We all would have liked one last goodbye, though. He was 90 years old. He spent several months in Bangalore with my family this year while I was at Tufts. He met everyone he could during Diwali and Dussehra and was just so content to be among the people he loved. He made sure he saw everyone before he left us, so he left everyone with their hearts full. I just wish he’d waited for me.
24 December, 2021
I’m feeling okay right now, but I know this is the kind of thing that’ll keep hitting me and hurting. I’m upset that I did not see Nana this whole year. And I know I’m being selfish, but I’m upset that I will not get to spend as much time with Baba as I’d hoped, because it’s been a year since I saw him and I’ve missed him so much. I hope Nani comes back to Bangalore with him.
Last night, I was holding Nani in the middle of the night, and she said she needed to use the bathroom. She walked to the living room, saying she wanted to see him first. Nana lay in an ice box. She looked at him and said “Arre, what are you doing? How can you be sleeping… I’m struggling to fall asleep here.” My whole chest hurt. When she lay down, complaining about a headache, I gave her a forehead massage the way she taught me in middle school, telling her that I use the same technique to comfort my cats and soothe my friends’ headaches all the way at Tufts, too. She seemed secretly proud to know that her method had spread overseas and lived in the memories of people who had never met her.
At night, I sleep next to Nani, and we face each other. She puts one palm on my pillow under my face and cups my cheek, and I hold her other hand. She jokes about how I sneak under her blanket and hold her tummy in the middle of the night like I did when I was little. I rub her arms when she cries quietly in the morning because she isn’t waking up next to her husband. She won’t, ever again. And I won’t get to hear Nana’s voice again. Have him ask me excessive details about my travel itinerary. Have him run through approximately three questions during a call and then bark “Okay” and abruptly end the call before I can even say “Bye”. Won’t hear him say “Sampawntaak!” Or bring snacks we say we like when he goes grocery-shopping, even during COVID, even when Mumma tells him not to go for his own safety. Or ask me to see my college textbooks when he visits, because he was always so curious about what I was studying. In some ways, it still hasn’t hit me, but I don’t know what could be more real than seeing his still body lying on the pyre. Nana was such a force of nature. The Indore house was full yesterday, full of family and friends and neighbors, and yet, the house felt quiet, because he wasn’t there. That buzz wasn’t there. The little Nana tornado, constantly moving from one thing to another, from one room to the next, making rounds and showing up absolutely everywhere, was missing.
Today Nani and Baba talked about Nana in the past tense, about the sweaters he wore while praying and on his walks, his socks that were drying on the clothesline, with an almost casual tone. Nani’s ancient Samsung phone just rang and it’s the same ringtone, the one I associate so strongly with Nana’s “Hullo! Namaskaaar!” that would interrupt my online lectures when we were all home last summer because of COVID. Mose chhal kiye jaaye, haay re haay re haay, dekho sai.nyaa beimaan. We were always so amused by that choice in ringtone. I keep thinking about how Nana and I had a huge fight that summer. I’d been trying to convince Nana to get a smartphone, because it would be so much easier for him to use than his ancient button phone, but he refused to accept that it was a good idea. Eventually, he said he thought there was no point in learning how to use a smartphone, not at his age, and insinuated that he was probably going to die soon anyway, so he was going to stick to his old ways. I got mad at him for saying that, for almost using his impending death as a weapon to win the argument. Because I didn’t want to think about how his argument had a hint of validity to it. I didn’t want to see it from his perspective and acknowledge what it meant I would some day lose. I locked myself in my room and cried for an hour and he banged on my door, apologizing, telling me — no, begging me — to come out and try to understand. I refused. I wish I’d listened. The rest of the summer just… happened, and I honestly don’t even remember most of it, and shit, I wish I did because those were my last few memories with Nana and I didn’t even know it yet.
Aaji-Papaji don’t know yet. They don’t know we’re in Indore. Papaji was the one we’d been worried about, the one who’s been in the hospital. I’ve been terrified and simultaneously in denial and either ways I want to go visit them once before I leave. I want to hug Papaji and wish him “Good morning!” in the evening and bake a chocolate cake with Aaji. I want to record a video of Nani’s Burnol bedtime story that all of her grandkids grew up with. I wish I had recordings of Nana’s Shivaji stories.
It feels really stupid to have to worry about my projects, to take my incomplete coursework seriously, when there is so much grief around and within me. It is just so meaningless. Or at least, it should be. It feels wrong for it to not be meaningless right now, and yet, I worked on my projects for four hours today, Ishaan attended his FIITJEE classes in the evening, and Apoorva Tai and Deepali vahini had office calls and work today. We’re just supposed to go on. Just keep on keeping on. Somehow, Nani seems to recognize and accept that better than I do. She is so strong. She is radiant in even her exhaustion. Any hint of weakness from her 88 year old body is overshadowed by the sheer strength and determination radiating from her core. We heard her murmuring prayers while bathing yesterday. When she stepped out, her brows were raised tight with a sense of calm and confidence. She flipped her shoulder-length hair and dried it with quick jerks of her towel. She looked at her own reflection in the mirror and fixed her saree with so much grace. And then she joined us for a cup of chai at the dining table. I love her so much. I admire her so much. I am so lucky to forever have parts of her in my blood.
There is no break from sadness. There will always be something new and difficult. And I know that the flip side is true too, that there will always be something new and good, too. Something to be happy about. But that doesn’t change what has happened.
I don’t want to end this one on a positive note. Not yet.
That evening, I came downstairs to find Nani sitting on the couch, surrounded by her other grandkids. Mumma was holding her phone up to record a video, ready to capture Nani’s extended version of the classic Kolaba Marathi story on video. The fact that they all had the same idea independently of me warmed my heart. I joined them, and Nani began her story, rushing through the original plot. In brief, it was about a fox who stole berries from a woman’s tree, and then had the audacity to spit out the seeds and poop on her porch. Frustrated, the woman puts out a red hot pan on her porch, and the fox, curious and excited about this new addition, decides to sit and poop right on the pan. Naturally, it causes second degree burns on his behind, teaching him a lesson for stealing.
As always, Nani tweaked the plot of her extended version to something we’d never heard before, despite the tradition’s 30 year long career. The fox heads back home and begs his disgruntled wife to put some Burnol (burn cream) on his behind. When we were little, on noticing that we still hadn’t fallen asleep, Nani would draw out the story, always adding some beautifully ridiculous element to these events, like the fox having to borrow the Burnol from a neighbor in the middle of the night, or the wife kicking the fox out of the house, or the fox’s three children judging him for stealing and promising not to turn out like him. We narrated back to her these other variations from memory, until we were all clutching our stomachs, falling over, and in tears from laughter. I think we’re going to be fine. Because the story still gave us so much joy, despite all the sadness we’d felt all day. And it will even thirty years from now, when she won’t be around, when we’ll have only each other to hear the story from as we reminisce about our childhoods. The love that we gave and received across time will not fade away from those moments and will help us carry our grief.
So buck up. Smile. Charm. Off we go. We’ll be okay.
Constant Caprice 