Amma

My grandmother passed away today after almost a decade of suffering. In fact most of my adult life I remember her either severely bed-ridden or hospitalized. Its probably good because it must have eased her suffering, but I can imagine how hard it will be on my father. They had never been on the best terms for as long as I can remember. I guess the last time when she was actively there in my life was before I turned 12. Those were the days in Purnia, in Bihar, before I started schooling in Cal. She never quite liked my mother and always, always gave her hell, and of course I hated her for it. She made it so difficult for my father- who loved her- she gave rise to such bitterness. I could never consider her a fair person, but then again, I know she liked me. Probably because I was a boy, cause she never really was very fond of my sister…
But I’d like to remember the nice things. I can still hear her calling me from the prayer room…to come and help her with the lamps, and the little cymbals, and the incense and everything. In return, I would get sweets. My favourite, I still remember was this crunchy sugar savoury called a batasha. But I had to wait patiently till it got over. She always told me about the gods, and read me little bits from the scriptures, especially all the heroic bits…like Krishna and Rama’s childhoods…every little boy’s favourite. Dunno what it was about that little prayer room, overlooking our large courtyard. It would fascinate me to see the little room get filled up by incense smoke quietly snaking up to the ceiling.
Sometimes she would get emotional and complain to me about something or the other. I could never stand people crying, but I was too small to understand anything, so all I could do was hug her and tell her it would be ok…thik acche…as we say in Bengali. I guess she never was truly happy since my grandfather passed away two years before I was born. She loved him, and I know she loved her little Bhullu (my father), when he was really little. Perhaps I reminded her of them, both of whom in their own ways had gone away never to return. She couldn’t speak these last few years. I wonder what she thought. I am unbearably sad, though I don’t know why. I hope she finds peace, wherever she is.
Tata amma, shob thik hoye jaabe,
Bublu.