Ever since I read Orhan Pamuk's Silent House, I've been thinking of my paternal grandmother. We were not really close. She was not the kind of grandmother who would pamper children by telling them stories and watching them fall asleep. She was unemotional, efficient and hard. Or perhaps, the real she, was hiding inside a shell.
After her husband passed away, she continued to live in their house in the village with her sister. The two women looked after the land and the fields efficiently. They would work all day and watch TV late into the night. After we moved to Trivandrum, she came to live with us briefly, as her health, at that time, needed frequent medical consultation.
I was 12 then, lost in my own sorrows and distant dreams, perhaps I did not try to form a bond with the poor old woman. My mother had taken a few months off from work, she did administer the medication and managed the diet as prescribed and advised by the doctor. Grandmother was allowed to watch TV as much as she wanted and the relatives visited her frequently . But as soon as she recovered, she wanted to move back to the village.
At home, all of us except my father perhaps, talked in stark northern accent, and my mother, even with the help of the maid, had not quite mastered the Travancore cuisine. The poor old lady couldn't have waited any longer to move back. I still remember how she used stand there in the veranda, leaning on a pillar, staring blankly at the road.
She passed away when I was 15, after having been hospitalized for a week.
I am intrigued by the way the grandmother character in Silent house dreams of the innocence of her youth. She had had a bitter life with a man who repulsed her, had secluded herself from his believes, non-believes, adultery and madness, had been horrendously cruel to his mistress and her children and had witnessed her son and daughter in-law being taken into grave. She just lives on, cursing her servant and being unpleasant to everybody and everything in the present, but secretly holding on to the memories of her childhood, the time she and her mother made lemonade together, the time she visited her friends in the city, the time they read a novel together...
How do this ordeal called life, transform a young innocent girl of 14 to a bitter old woman?
I wonder what my grandmother was thinking when she was standing there leaning on that pillar?
The perfect silence of a midsummer afternoon in the village? the old glory of the temple? the lush paddy fields? the day she got married? or simply an old movie which gave her quite a thrill?
On a lighter note, I over-heard a trio of old ladies last week at a restaurant. They were talking about Shwagertochter, the daughter in-law.
Here in this country, even women over 70 carefully wear their make up. Since its a rich country, their clothes are expensive, their jewellery rare. Those who are single, still boldly sport a mini-skirt and a sleeveless T in summer. I admire their zest for life.
I am thinking of all grandmothers back home, who go to temple every evening, who chant their prayers even in sleep. I hope their spirituality is not just a way of withdrawal.
What is right? Believing that you still have the power to turn things around and enjoy life, meet someone, even fall in love..(What is love at 70? I wonder) ..Or just giving up on life and waiting for your time?
I don't know actually, I do not want to judge either group.
This is to all grandmothers, those who wear lipstick and those who don't, and their stories, told and untold.
After her husband passed away, she continued to live in their house in the village with her sister. The two women looked after the land and the fields efficiently. They would work all day and watch TV late into the night. After we moved to Trivandrum, she came to live with us briefly, as her health, at that time, needed frequent medical consultation.
I was 12 then, lost in my own sorrows and distant dreams, perhaps I did not try to form a bond with the poor old woman. My mother had taken a few months off from work, she did administer the medication and managed the diet as prescribed and advised by the doctor. Grandmother was allowed to watch TV as much as she wanted and the relatives visited her frequently . But as soon as she recovered, she wanted to move back to the village.
At home, all of us except my father perhaps, talked in stark northern accent, and my mother, even with the help of the maid, had not quite mastered the Travancore cuisine. The poor old lady couldn't have waited any longer to move back. I still remember how she used stand there in the veranda, leaning on a pillar, staring blankly at the road.
She passed away when I was 15, after having been hospitalized for a week.
I am intrigued by the way the grandmother character in Silent house dreams of the innocence of her youth. She had had a bitter life with a man who repulsed her, had secluded herself from his believes, non-believes, adultery and madness, had been horrendously cruel to his mistress and her children and had witnessed her son and daughter in-law being taken into grave. She just lives on, cursing her servant and being unpleasant to everybody and everything in the present, but secretly holding on to the memories of her childhood, the time she and her mother made lemonade together, the time she visited her friends in the city, the time they read a novel together...
How do this ordeal called life, transform a young innocent girl of 14 to a bitter old woman?
I wonder what my grandmother was thinking when she was standing there leaning on that pillar?
The perfect silence of a midsummer afternoon in the village? the old glory of the temple? the lush paddy fields? the day she got married? or simply an old movie which gave her quite a thrill?
On a lighter note, I over-heard a trio of old ladies last week at a restaurant. They were talking about Shwagertochter, the daughter in-law.
Here in this country, even women over 70 carefully wear their make up. Since its a rich country, their clothes are expensive, their jewellery rare. Those who are single, still boldly sport a mini-skirt and a sleeveless T in summer. I admire their zest for life.
I am thinking of all grandmothers back home, who go to temple every evening, who chant their prayers even in sleep. I hope their spirituality is not just a way of withdrawal.
What is right? Believing that you still have the power to turn things around and enjoy life, meet someone, even fall in love..(What is love at 70? I wonder) ..Or just giving up on life and waiting for your time?
I don't know actually, I do not want to judge either group.
This is to all grandmothers, those who wear lipstick and those who don't, and their stories, told and untold.
