R’s blog

Ba

Ξ October 19th, 2008 | → | ∇ Family |

It’s getting harder and harder to call my grandmother these days. I can hear her struggling on the phone to talk, sometimes not aware of where the mouthpiece is, until somebody attentive enough near her props up the phone for her.

“Chinta na karti,” she always tells me. “Badha majama che. Hu pan saari chu.”

Don’t worry about me. Everyone is all right. I am fine too.

And I marvel at how brave she is. Because she can no longer walk, and her left arm that broke when she once tried to get up by herself in the night refuses to heal. And I have seen cry with pain but never complain.

I went to meet her last year. She was more coherent than she is now. When she found out I was coming, she insisted on going downstairs to greet me until my family had to lie to her that I had postponed my trip to dissuade her from going down. When she  finally saw me, she started crying. I cried, too; my grief doubled because I realized that I had never spent enough time with her when everything she did all her life was for her family. Even when we should have been taking care of her, she took care of us. Our mothers might forget to do things for my brother, my cousins and me, but she never would. Each of us had different ways of drinking milk while growing up, and she would make sure that our milk was ready the way we liked it, morning, evening and night– hot, cold, lukewarm, sugar, no sugar, Horlicks, Bournvita, hot in the morning, cold in the evening, steel glass, glass glass, mug… .She would remember and have our glasses/mugs ready for us, quietly, without fail, even before we realized we needed to drink milk. We just took it for granted like everything else she did for us.

Today, even with progressive dementia, that part of her hasn’t changed. She may not remember our names but she won’t sleep until she hears everyone’s voices or sees us in the house. If she doesn’t, she needs to be explained why the person is not home yet.

When talking to her, I ask her my name. If it’s a good day, she remembers. Or sometimes, she confuses me for my aunt, her daughter. Or my cousin. Or, she says, I can’t remember, and then I tell her.

Sometimes that rings a bell. The last time I talked to her, she told me she is coming to see me next week. She said she is going to book tickets for Ahmedabad (Ahmedabad = America in her mind), and she will come see me when she goes to Palitana.

And I tell myself then that maybe she is in a happier place in her mind, when she’s forgotten briefly that she can’t walk and how dependent she is on others. I tell her then that I can’t wait to see her.

It’s the truth. It always will be.

 

8 Responses to ' Ba '

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1. Ria said,
   
   

   on October 22nd, 2008 at 10:53 pm

   This happened to me too and I started to fax her letter written in 32 points Punjabi font. She would respond something and my aunt would email me her response. This worked out great because each letter took her a little time to read and she enjoyed it.Sometimes she would have visitors read the letter to her and they would all laugh at the grammatical errors in my punjabi writing.

2. Aaru said,
   
   

   on October 22nd, 2008 at 10:57 pm

   I can undurstand……. nice to read this.. the people who are very close to you… you never know when you start taking them for granted and dont give enough time to them.. Such a dillema …

3. Saroja said,
   
   

   on November 5th, 2008 at 11:28 am

   What a moving post, R. Grandparents are special and the realisation that they are moving away from us is so painful. Specially when your memory keeps tugging you back.

4. Shivani Shah Sangani said,
   
   

   on November 24th, 2008 at 3:02 am

   How true! We never realised how much ba means to all of us. Its only now that all of us are away from her we realise what she actually means to us!

5. R said,
   
   

   on December 24th, 2008 at 11:46 pm

   That’s true, Shivani. They don’t make people like her anymore.

6. R said,
   
   

   on December 24th, 2008 at 11:52 pm

   True, Saroja.

7. R said,
   
   

   on December 24th, 2008 at 11:57 pm

   That’s true, Aaru.

8. R said,
   
   

   on December 24th, 2008 at 11:59 pm

   Thanks for your comment, Ria. I used to do that too earlier, but she’s beyond that now. She doesn’t always what you say to her. She lives in a different world most of the times. But she’s still the best.

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