I have a favourite grandparent. My apologies to my maternal grandmother (my only surviving grandparent), but it's not her, I'm afraid. It's her counterpart, my father's mother. She was, by all accounts, and from what I can remember of her, a wonderful human being.
I wish I knew more about her life from before she was married. Her husband was born with a congenital heart defect, and doctors declared later that it was a miracle he managed to have four perfectly healthy children. I think they had a good life together, but he died when their children were young enough to still be unmarried, and then the care of all of them fell to my grandmother. She took to the task with strength of mind, and not a small amount of creativity.
My earliest memories of her are a haze of childhood moments from when she lived with us in Oman. I couldn't have been older than six or seven then. She used to sit by me and peel green grapes, tear them in half, and then feed them to me by hand. She spoilt us silly, and I took particular joy in it, I think. I've been told I was her favourite. I suspect now that's an exaggeration, but I refuse to believe otherwise anyway. I've also been told that I look like her, and this I do genuinely believe. It's my favourite feature of my appearance, and one that I will always find joy in.
My sister, Umma and me, sometime in the '90s
Whenever I look back on those times, the first thing I remember is the warmth and wisdom she radiated. The warmth was easy, what with her ever-present smile and her twinkling eyes behind those large, old-fashioned glasses. Her wisdom came from her hands, from the careful and practiced way they would move around any task, be it smoothing our clothes over or feeding me those grapes. Such an indulgent thing to do. But I only remember feeling joy and peace, not greed (a convenient perspective, of course). Even now, remembering her as an adult, I feel love - pure, whole, and unconditional. She was everything you typically wanted in a grandma, the quintessence of all of the fun with none of the rules.
I don't remember her moving away from Muscat to return to India. I do remember, though, visiting her when we moved to India ourselves. By then, she was nearing the end of her life. She passed away within three years of our reunion. Her dementia was both heart-breaking and adorable. She would forget where and when she was, and would talk to us as if it was decades ago. There were times she would fail to recognize one of us, but I don't think she ever forgot another one of her grandchildren on whom she doted, and me. Maybe she saw her own image in my face. I hope she liked that.
She died on New Year's Eve, 2001. Nearly all of her children, and her children's children, were with her at the time. I heard my mum and aunt say later that it was a blessed death; it was relatively painless, and she died surrounded by her legacy of love. We spent a long time just huddled around her bed, passing around a small bowl of Zamzam water, each of us feeding it to her by hand.
Umma with one of her grandchildren, 2001
Hers was the first death I witnessed. One moment, she was struggling to breathe, and the next, she exhaled one final time and stilled. My mother closed Umma's eyes, and kissed her cheek and continued crying, like all of us around her.
Her funeral the next day was a blur; I only remember pieces. Being hushed away so Umma's body could be moved out of the house. All of us grandchildren drawing water from the well in the backyard to be used for the ritual of cleaning Umma's body. The haunted expression of tiredness and sorrow on my mum's face as she returned from that ritual. Taking part in funeral prayers even though, even at that age, I sensed that Islam was not for me, and praying anyway for Umma and her journey onward. My father's face when he questioned why something as festive as ghee rice was served that day for lunch, and my mother's and aunt's exhaustion as they explained their decision, that it was the easiest thing to prepare.
I remember returning to my grandma's room in that house after her death. I haven't felt the same about it since, and her absence is conspicuous.
Ma loved Umma more than her own mother, I suspect, though I'm sure she wouldn't agree with me. I don't blame her for it. But that's not to say that my maternal grandmother was unloving or unpleasant, not at all. But there was something about Umma that drew you in. When my mum waxes nostalgic, her stories always involve Umma. She credits Umma for most of her skills as a cook, for the joy she takes in feeding and taking care of people. She credits her also for being able to find strength to get through times so tough that nothing could have trained you for it.
Me, Umma and Ma, around 1993
I wish she was alive today so I could talk to her as an adult, so I could get to actually know her as a person, and have more than just the memories of a child and a self-involved teenager. I wish I could have endless conversations with her about what her life was like, what she regretted, what she loved, what advice she might have had for me, what her guilty pleasures were, what she would never tire of. I have nothing concrete of hers with me, no heirlooms or gifts that she left behind to remember her by and to pass down from one generation to the next. We have photographs and memories, all of which are cherished and precious. I can only hope she's at peace, wherever she is.
My family and I recently reminisced about Umma, and those stories made me want to write about her. I don't know why the need arose so suddenly, but it was a persistent, nagging urge that didn't fade until I wrote this post. I won't question it. If anything is worth dusting off this blog, it's her.
