One look at my petite grandmother, and it would have perhaps been difficult to imagine that her fragile structure once housed a remarkable, razor mind, but which life had debilitated.
And now, fate has taken her away.
Nani Ma, as we fondly referred to her – ensured that on our annual winter vacations, my brother and I were sunny-tempered children – a stark contrast to the grumpy / bratty sorts back home in Dehradun. She was the reason why a certain steel chest beneath her queen-sized bed, provided the only means to quieten us down / soothe our ruffled feathers. We never saw her deposit anything – yet it housed all that our young hearts desired – toys, sticky sugar-boiled sweets, imitation mint-sugar cigarettes, comics by the dozen, chocolates, fizzy drinks, crayons and colouring material etc. Sometimes, the ‘resourceful’ twit I was, I would will my cheeks to get drenched with streaming tears – just so that she would dip into the chest and hand me a delightful treat (much to the irritation of those cousins whose lachrymal glands were sorely out of their control).
Her lap was a fortress – if you were in it, nothing could touch you – no one’s temper (no matter how justified), no silly sibling’s slapping spree (Whoa – my alliteration sure is getting better by the day), no thunderstorm, not even Mum’s stern gaze for not finishing ‘em horrid green veggies or that acutely nauseating glass of milk.
Sometimes, the same lap was also our Godsend when we didn’t want to bathe.
A hug from her, and you would be enveloped in the same delicate fragrance as her – sandalwood / rose incense, Pond’s Cold Cream, betel nut leaves, and her patented lightly scented Keo Karpin.
Her ability to cause us to break into peals of laughter, was extraordinary, to say the least. And she didn’t even have to resort to tickling!
I remember our long walks inside tea estates – me clutching her index finger trustingly, trying to fog any shiny surface with the mist from my mouth. Sometimes I would loll my tongue out in mock-exhaustion, and the very next minute would find myself perched atop someone’s shoulders. Her story-telling half hour at bedtime was a ritual on those cold nights, and once back home, I would badger my parents to continue the practice, much to their exasperation.
I guess I am no different from other grandchildren who think their grandparents will live forever.
And in the next few years, get proven wrong.
R.I.P. Nani Ma.
Our world will not be the same without you.
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