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.
