The Forgotten Tale of Myths

I like watching mythological serials with my grandmother. As the sun pours out relentlessly outside, wilting our garden plants, i smile to myself – happy to have the air cooler breezing right to my face. It is this sense of relief from physical discomforts that makes me relish home.

Home becomes a luxury during vacations; you get to sleep on a comfortable bed, use electricity without a worry about your meter charges; eat without first lightening your wallet and use working geysers and flushes instead of buckets! For a student, these become treasured items that home promises. And I, for one, am exceedingly happy about these, besides all the fun an elderly grandmother and a quirky father can provide.

Our daily ritual involves some very very diverse schedules. I , for as long as i can remember, I wake up at sharp 6am only to throw myself on my grandmother’s bed downstairs and cuddle with her. There is something uniquely strange and comforting about hugging a frail old lady. She is over eighty years old, an asthma patient of the past five decades but has a surprisingly strong hand grip. She cribs , “don’t hog my bed” and i retort, “its only for a while”. Sometimes, if she’s had nightmares, i am allowed to come straight in to comfort her. Half an hour of jostling, teasing and finally being kicked out later, i slump in the third bed in the living room.

My family is a family of sleepers. It is indeed a genetic thing with us that if any of us is ill, you dont have to take care of the sick. Just let me be and let me sleep. Also, we take turns in holding records for number of hours slept! My father being the current champ clocking 18 hours (and no loo breaks). On account of this eccentricity (read, addiction), we have beds or diwans in all the rooms of the house. The drawing room sofa is always the place of contention for us. it is an old brown sofa made worse with huge puddle-like dents, by being slept on by each one of us. my uncle and i love to stretch out on it, arms tucked warmly under the chest, sleeping on our stomachs till finally somebody yells “stop trying to be rip van winkle” or “the cook won’t be happy you didn’t go vegetable shopping”.

The cook has such an intense place of importance in our household, but that is another story. After lunch is done, and my two fathers have finally left to open the bookstore, at 2pm in the afternoon (that also is another story), i am now at peace to relax, nap and watch my grandma’s favourite serials.

My grandmother and I follow a strict regimen when the men are not at home. We nap till 4pm or I wash clothes in the cemented courtyard which reminds me of the winter days i spent there, playing in the sun, while my hyperactive grandmother sun bathed and knitted and chatted with the backyard neighbour, all at the same time.

I was obsessed with chalk when i was little, and i loved drawing all sorts of art (?) on the concrete expanse. This was replaced by the desire to become a skater and the courtyard now became my personal ramp, witness to blood and countless bruises that still scar my legs.

As i hand wash clothes in the courtyard, these memories visit me from time to time. I do not feel like i have grown up at all but then the neighbour’s son peeps out of a window and i gasp, “he’s grown so much, but he was so little just a while ago”. By the time my mathematically retarded mind is able to calculate, i realise he was that young more than a decade ago.

If i am in the courtyard, my grandmother always walks to the door and smiles at me. Since she is always in the danger of falling if walking by herself, i scold, “what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to walk by yourself. What if you fall? What will happen then? How will we manage?”. To this tirade, she merely gives me her most appealing smile and my heart melts.

I cannot expect her to shackle herself to the antique bed in the living room, which is her entire world now. As i yell at her, i feel a pull on my throat like someone is tugging away with nails, right to my heart. And she merely smiles and repeats with a childish monotone, “you’re washing clothes. Then you will make tea for me and then we’ll watch the Ramayana”, ending again with a big smile under her brown framed spectacles.

Heaven help me if i am a minute late in making tea in the evening. She will try every trick in the book to make me wake up or leave the work at hand. This includes not merely our little tea ceremony but also sitting down (not budging at all) for two hours of her serials. Nevertheless, i like this period of watching ridiculously dressed hairy monsters aiming neon-lit arrows at cardboard chariots.

One of my grandma’s favourite tricks is what i like to call “the loo matrix”. This means that if you busy yourself with household chores or are not by her side, she will announce, “i am going to the toilet”. All of us are over-possessive about my grandma and her health. Hence, i go running behind her to assist; she will sit there for exactly two seconds, get up and shuffle across the corridor to her bed. Repeat this a dozen times in a span of half an hour.

The “loo matrix” is something that tests your wits and patience numerous times in a day. it nearly always implies one of us becoming so enraged so as to yell at grandma at the top of our voices; as if shouting will make this incident not repeat itself.

Anyway, its 4pm and of course I need to switch on the television. Grandma will be suspicious if you’ve put on her favourite serial or not because she cannot differentiate on the basis on advertisements and sitcoms. If the brightly robed monsters and gods are not on the screen, I must have put on the wrong channel. This episode repeats itself five days a week until thankfully, the weekend arrives and she knows the serials are not on anymore.

Despite the strains of looking after an elderly person, it is endearing and poignant to watch the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or tales of famous Indian gods with my grandma. She hardly seems to understand much of what is going on and when roused, “why are you not watching?”, she innocently replies, “they’re only fighting”.

Most tales of Hindu gods and goddesses involve wars, prolonged living in the jungles and an indescribable number of monsters and devils, threatening to ruin the perfect ending. The twists and turns in these tales are exhaustive and complete stories in themselves. And that is why i enjoy them.

One unique aspect of these tales of yore is how, despite having watched them umpteen times, one does not tire of them. though the animation is poor (and i am being generous by saying poor), the acting bordering on ridiculous and the costumes and props downright garish, there is a pull and an awe surrounding these tales that even the family soap opera crazed channels cannot ignore.

This two hour television watch involves grandma precociously putting on her spectacles, pulled out carefully from their leather casing; she then wraps one of her umpteen handkerchiefs (another story!) around a finger on the left hand (she had a mild injury on it once, and still believes in curing it by keeping it warm. Its been two years since she bruised it). only when the serial comes on, does she begin to sip her tea, two marie biscuits and an Indian sweet.

I have come to realise that old age shackles as well as releases the binds of life on a person. My grandmother is unconcerned with her own loved ones daily lives; but she shows semblance of remarkable clarity when it comes down to emotions. When i called off my engagement, my grandmother asked me over the phone, “you are happy, right? Don’t be sad”. Simple yet insightful, heart rending yet a joyous realisation that i am still, a little granddaughter to her and always will be.