I haven't been able to write for 2 days. Is it just two days? And not spend hours on the BFTP thread. Feels like forever. Like Kareena expertly puts it in Jab We Met. "aisa lag raha hai jaisi meri train chutne wali hai".. It feels like something is amiss.. am missing something.. an uncomfortable feeling.. So here I am writing.. I want to write about Arnav and Khushi, but can't find any words yet so something else for tonight...
Dadaji, my father's father. I lived in a house with my grandparents. Coincidently my mother also lived there and my father, or atleast that is what it feels like in retrospect. We would have power cuts and I would sit on the sofa's armchair and listen to his stories. He taught me Maths and, I think, Hindi for a few years. He liked Madhubala and loved the dhak dhak karne laga girl. He had visited Europe when he was young. Always used a fork and spoon and even a knife if he found one. He would take out each seed from the guava meticulously before he ate it. My dadaji loved mithai. Maybe even more than Khushi, if that is even possible. He would loiter around all day fixing some broken stuff or the other.
Not that I have not had my fair share of anger directed towards him. He would always insist am better than everyone around. When all I wanted was to merge in with the crowd. He caught me in a hug with the boy I loved. Later when the same boy held dadaji's hand and supported him up a flight of stairs I silently stood and watched. Its been more than a year that I haven't seen him or heard his voice. I wish he had made it to my house before it was too late. When we were cleaning up his papers from one old diary fell out a paper cutting of a news paper article about a company where I got my campus placement. I did not even join that company but he had kept that square pice of paper safe for me. He is not coming back. And sometimes I miss him so much.
Dadiji, my father's mother. Loves gardening. Loves staying up late watching movies. We would sit in the aangan and look at stars. I know she likes the movie Prem Rog. She likes gardening. Everytime she plants peas she still tells me on the phone to come down and pluck some from the plant. Eat it the way I did as a kid. At 75 she can still do much more work than I can at 26. Cheese is the most difficult word to pronounce. so 'cheej' it is. Holi, Diwali is incomplete without her food.
She is weaker and I feel protective. How many times has she taken care of me, but now I feel like caring for her. Making sure nothing happens to her. With dadaji gone she is no longer the same. A shadow of herself. She finally visited me in my house. Her grown up grand daughter's own house after marriage. She sat watching tv all evening long and just one day I put my head on her lap and felt young and carefree again.
Dadu, my mother's father. Every summer, winter and durga puja vacation I would spend in his house. He plays golf. Still loves to drive around alone. He once called the cable operator and insisted they show the popular movie "Dil to Deewana Hai" for his grand daughter. That 'deewana' was actually 'pagal' is too subtle a difference for my Bengali dadu. I would sit with him in the puja pandal and hear him talk of politics while I read my book. Peaceful. Safe. And the fights we had over the remote. He still watches the news, but most often snores rather than hear.
Didu, my mother's mother. Aah for she is quite the drama queen herself. Her favourite line "bhuk chire dekhiye debo". She will tear open her heart to show us the love she has. Can quote Worsdworth and sometimes even make impromptu poems herself. Slips and falls and hurts herself often, exactly like me. Not too handy in the kitchen ,but I love her aaloo bhaja.
When I visit they order food, buy food and then make some more food. Atter marriage I haven't stayed a single night at their place. I plan to the next visit. They came to my house. And saw their grand daughter who had never cooked anything make samosa. Dadu was amazed that I got the samosa to actually look triangular. And didu had the sweetest comment, "choto natnir choto notun shonshar".. her small granddaughter's own small little world.
Nani, my husband's mother's mother. Quite strict in the kitchen. Its her way and that is the only way. Someday's when she is alone she calls me and just talks to me. Usually we have awkward silences in the phone call, but I know I am being blessed because she chose to call me. One wife of one of her 12 grand children.
Yes its my world and am so very happy in it (touch wood), but I feel sad I will have to say good bye to them some day. I feel sad that my children will never know my dadaji. My children will have their dadaji. and some day what kind of a grandmother will I be? Will I witty, will I be wise? Will I be strict, will I be nice? Que sara sara.. whatever will be, will be...
Dadaji, my father's father. I lived in a house with my grandparents. Coincidently my mother also lived there and my father, or atleast that is what it feels like in retrospect. We would have power cuts and I would sit on the sofa's armchair and listen to his stories. He taught me Maths and, I think, Hindi for a few years. He liked Madhubala and loved the dhak dhak karne laga girl. He had visited Europe when he was young. Always used a fork and spoon and even a knife if he found one. He would take out each seed from the guava meticulously before he ate it. My dadaji loved mithai. Maybe even more than Khushi, if that is even possible. He would loiter around all day fixing some broken stuff or the other.
Not that I have not had my fair share of anger directed towards him. He would always insist am better than everyone around. When all I wanted was to merge in with the crowd. He caught me in a hug with the boy I loved. Later when the same boy held dadaji's hand and supported him up a flight of stairs I silently stood and watched. Its been more than a year that I haven't seen him or heard his voice. I wish he had made it to my house before it was too late. When we were cleaning up his papers from one old diary fell out a paper cutting of a news paper article about a company where I got my campus placement. I did not even join that company but he had kept that square pice of paper safe for me. He is not coming back. And sometimes I miss him so much.
Dadiji, my father's mother. Loves gardening. Loves staying up late watching movies. We would sit in the aangan and look at stars. I know she likes the movie Prem Rog. She likes gardening. Everytime she plants peas she still tells me on the phone to come down and pluck some from the plant. Eat it the way I did as a kid. At 75 she can still do much more work than I can at 26. Cheese is the most difficult word to pronounce. so 'cheej' it is. Holi, Diwali is incomplete without her food.
She is weaker and I feel protective. How many times has she taken care of me, but now I feel like caring for her. Making sure nothing happens to her. With dadaji gone she is no longer the same. A shadow of herself. She finally visited me in my house. Her grown up grand daughter's own house after marriage. She sat watching tv all evening long and just one day I put my head on her lap and felt young and carefree again.
Dadu, my mother's father. Every summer, winter and durga puja vacation I would spend in his house. He plays golf. Still loves to drive around alone. He once called the cable operator and insisted they show the popular movie "Dil to Deewana Hai" for his grand daughter. That 'deewana' was actually 'pagal' is too subtle a difference for my Bengali dadu. I would sit with him in the puja pandal and hear him talk of politics while I read my book. Peaceful. Safe. And the fights we had over the remote. He still watches the news, but most often snores rather than hear.
Didu, my mother's mother. Aah for she is quite the drama queen herself. Her favourite line "bhuk chire dekhiye debo". She will tear open her heart to show us the love she has. Can quote Worsdworth and sometimes even make impromptu poems herself. Slips and falls and hurts herself often, exactly like me. Not too handy in the kitchen ,but I love her aaloo bhaja.
When I visit they order food, buy food and then make some more food. Atter marriage I haven't stayed a single night at their place. I plan to the next visit. They came to my house. And saw their grand daughter who had never cooked anything make samosa. Dadu was amazed that I got the samosa to actually look triangular. And didu had the sweetest comment, "choto natnir choto notun shonshar".. her small granddaughter's own small little world.
Nani, my husband's mother's mother. Quite strict in the kitchen. Its her way and that is the only way. Someday's when she is alone she calls me and just talks to me. Usually we have awkward silences in the phone call, but I know I am being blessed because she chose to call me. One wife of one of her 12 grand children.
Yes its my world and am so very happy in it (touch wood), but I feel sad I will have to say good bye to them some day. I feel sad that my children will never know my dadaji. My children will have their dadaji. and some day what kind of a grandmother will I be? Will I witty, will I be wise? Will I be strict, will I be nice? Que sara sara.. whatever will be, will be...
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