We live our life in a way that enamors millions of stories, some of them true and some of them not-that-true. But if we look into our past, the very idea of a story is mostly passed on to us by our grandparents, and in my part of the world, it’s undoubtedly grandma.
I too had one such grandma, from my maternal side. She was beautiful in spite of having thousands of lines on her face. She was kind and unbiased like no other person I know. Not even my amma matches her in this regard. Grandma was something else. You don’t find that kind of people very often.
Everything single time something bad happens (which happens most of the time!), the face that comes in front of me is not of my surviving family (with whom I hardly connect with!). That face belongs to someone who used to called me “Sunilo” when I was a kid and used to take me to river bank for a bath. The knot at the end of her sari used to be an territory of discord between all of her grandchildren but I liked to believe that I was her favorite grandchild.
It’s amazing how a person once gone refuses to go out of your memory and keeps reminding you of your inextricable roots. She died pretty weak and famished as her internal organs stagnated and her memory bid her farewell. I didn’t see her on her deathbed but I heard later that she looked peaceful in her deep sleep. Anyone could guess where she was leaving for.