Nani

Nani. For years now, I've planned to sit down one day and write about the kickass woman that is Nani.

Nani loved her teatime. Even when she was well into her nineties, she did not lose her taste for treats. She had dementia, she didn’t remember most of us, and she was bedridden for about a decade (she never left her room really after Nanaji died). But she never lost her taste for good tea. She never lost her acute alertness for details. And she never lost the ability to sharply rap her middle-aged children with a disciplining word.

For the last few years, we had a regular tea ritual which was the highlight of our visits. We would visit in the evening around 4 or 5pm, when she had woken up from her nap. Mom would pack snacks bought on her travels, mithai, gajjak, chhaina murgi, Ghanaian chocolate, matthis and all kinds of namkeens. The maid at Garden Estate would make tea for all of us. Nani would sit up in her bed, we would all settle around her, the foldable tea table would be brought to the foot of the bed, and tea would be served.

Nani loved sugar in her tea. She would hawkishly examine whoever was on sugar duty for the evening. Normally it was Vidur. Per routine, Mom would pretend she had already sweetened the tea in the kitchen. This was because regardless of whether sugar had been put or not, Nani would take a sip and declare “Cheeni kam hai”. Then Vidur would add a spoonful to her cup, she would take a sip, and say “Hor pa!” After a few iterations of this, Vidur would deftly start putting fake spoonfuls in Nani’s cup and earnestly stir the tea. When this process had been repeated a few times, Nani would appear to be satisfied, and start drinking her tea. 

Nani would try most if not all of the snacks on the tray. She had none of that fragility or desire for simple foods that people often have in old age. She would munch on the Ghanaian chocolate, she would try the Matthis and if she liked them she would have 3 or 4. She dipped her biscuits in the tea, proper style. When she particularly liked something, she would say “Yeh kahaan se aaya? Bahut accha hai. Kitne ka aaya? Iske paise mujhse le lena!” 

Our visits always started the same way. We would come in and greet her, have her gently sit up, and then mom would lead the charge of introductions. “Nimma! I am your daughter Geeta!” From this nudge, Nani would quite quickly recognize mom, and then mom would introduce us all as her kids/husband. It was quite funny really -- while Nani certainly knew mom, she mainly opened up to us because she believed mom, not because she recognized us 100 percent!

My job was normally to help Nani sit up, and then be her backrest while she got out of the sleepiness and got used to sitting up again. Sometimes, she would just slump into me with all her weight, and though she was a tiny woman, she was really quite heavy! I remember I would have to use some resistance to keep her upright — I swear it was her strong will that was bearing me down despite her tiny size! 

In the initial years after Nanaji’s passing, I was also on duty to cut Nani’s nails. Mom was the CEO of this operation, and she would send someone off to bring warm water in a mug. I would be asked to soak Nani’s hands for a few minutes, while a newspaper was arranged and the nail cutter rummaged-for, normally with Kaka Mama’s help. Once these were ready, I would need to carefully cut Nani’s nails without hurting her. This was tricky because her nails were super hard and thick, and they were always quite on the long side. I would be on my toes during this operation, because she was acutely aware of every moment of nail-cutting, and after each nail was done, she would run her thumb over it to check if it had been cut properly. If she was not satisfied she would say “Ei phir katt!” She was also very particular about the nails being smooth -- if they were not, she would have me file them. In the end, she would always say “Thank you so much. God bless you,” sometimes with her hands folded.

In the later years though, Nani’s nails really got quite hard and only mom was skilled enough (and let’s face it, able to control her enough) to cut her nails. Mom would always look forward to this, and she took care of Nani like she was a newborn baby. She would cut her nails so gently, and rebuke her lovingly for letting them grow so long or not cleaning her hands under her fingernails. Mom was also required to maintain the highest nail-cutting standards; meanwhile, I was put full-time on backrest duty. I would massage Nani’s back while doing this. Her back was a bit rounded by then, like a concave curve. I would massage with my fists up and down her backbone, and she would invariably say “Hor zor naal kar.” When I combed her hair, it was the same. I would try to be extra gentle not to pull her hair, but she would always say “I can’t feel the comb! Phir se kar.”

Mom addressed Nani as “Nimma”. This is because Nani’s name was Nirmala as a child. When she got married, her name was changed to Sushma; but mom addressed her using a variant of her original name. In the earlier years mom would say “Nimma! Mainnu pechaneya?” But later she felt this caused Nani unnecessary confusion so she switched to “Nimma! Main Geeta! Thuadi beti!” This worked quite well.

In 2016, we managed to pull off a feat which had been mom’s dream for years: we took Nani to visit Chhatarpur temple. Nani was 91 years old at this time. It was near-impossible to convince her to get out of bed and walk. She had lost faith that she could walk; we kept giving her pep talks but she was not having any of it. She had had a terrible accident as a child, when her leg got caught in a mechanical wheel which caused multiple fractures. Her leg was always bad, and after Nanaji’s death she stopped feeling that she could walk on her own. The trip to Chattarpur was special because Nani and Nanaji used to visit this temple on key occasions, and this tradition passed on to the Sharmas too. I think only mom could have made it happen.

Moments from 25 March 2016, the day of the miraculous visit to the temple. 

Before we head to the temple. 

Dad: Mandir chaloge?

Nani: Kaunsa?

Dad: Chhatarpur.

Nani: Gaadi hai?

Dad: Haanji hai. Chaloge?

Nani: Meri kangi kaun karega??

In the car there. 

Nani: Kya karti hai aaj kal?

Me: Naukri.

Nani: Kitna kamaati hai?

Me: *Silence*

Nani: Yeh nahin bataayegi. Mein nahin maangoongi!

In the car on the way back. Nani is recounting memories from her pre-marriage days which she often does.

Nani: Mujhe khana banane ka shauk nahin tha. Papa bolte the, “beta kya karna hai? Aaj maid bhi nahin hai ghar mein sirf tum ho.” Main kehti thi, “pulao bana doongi. Usse pet bhar jaata hai.”

Me: Aap apne students ko daant te the?

Nani: Nahin, kabhi nahin. Humaare school mein humein bolte the, "Have some patience!"

Me: Aapko apne students pe gussa aata tha?

Nani: Naturally.

Back in nani’s room. It is teatime.

Nani looks at the sugar cup near the tea cup.

Nani: Yeh kya hai?

Vidur: Cheeni.

Nani takes a spoon of sugar and eats it directly instead of putting it in the teacup.

Nani: Bahut swaad hai.

Two minutes later, Nani takes a sip of tea.

Nani: Cheeni nahin daali.

Vidur puts in a fake spoon of sugar after having put 4 real ones.

Nani watches avidly as he puts the spoonful in.

The moment he finishes his act-

Nani: Aur daal.

Nani passed away on 20 December 2019, a Friday. It was the day mom and dad landed in Delhi after wrapping up mom’s apartment in Accra. Everyone said Nani had been waiting for mom before moving on. I believe that too. It’s a truth that you can feel rather than understand.

I remember Nani for her unfettered positivity. She emanated an infectious positive energy till the end, right into her advanced age and diminishing senses. She would always fold her hands and say "Thank you for coming. Bahut accha laga. Please come again,” when we were saying bye after the tea visits. She had the combined spirit of a mischievous child and an experienced matron, she would play and rebuke, all very lovingly, all without trying. It was simply who she was. I felt that she taught Mom to love in the generous, unfettered and joyful way that she does. 

She loved chanting "Jai Mata Di!". Once in a while Kaka mama would come into the room and go over the Jai Mata Di chant. He would stand by Nani's bed, and she would fold her hands. Then they would start: 

Kaka mama: Sare bolo!

Nani: Jai Mata Di!

KM: Zor se bolo!

Nani: Jai Mata Di! 

KM: Sheron wali!

Nani: Jai Mata Di!

KM: Ashta bhavani!

Nani: Jai Mata Di. 

Once Nani was lying down, either snoozing or on the verge of a nap, when mom and Minky masi started having a childish verbal spat. Minky masi was busy chastizing mom, when out of the blue, Nani declared: "Chup kar!" We were all taken aback, and Minky masi was stunned into silence! It was hilarious, and classic Nani.

Rest peacefully and joyfully, dear Nimma. 

I can remember so many moments when she made us laugh, and surprised us. I’ll leave you with some moments from a visit on Sunday, 8 November 2015.

Nani lays down as mom cuts her toenails. “You skipped the big toe!” Nani calls out as she leans back. 

Nani is holding my hand. She feels the rubber band on my wrist and tells me, “remove the rubber band.” Then she grasps my hand tightly. 

Nani and I are lying in her warm quilt. She has her eyes closed, but I keep engaging her in conversation. As I pause she says “Why don’t you let me go to sleep?”

***

Snow in November

It is snowing.
Snow transforms.
Transforms the window into a TV frame. Through which
the people come and go
passing by the christmas trees that line up outside the door
of Ace Hardware.
The orange trash truck, "Tenleytown Trash", leaves figure 8s
in its wake.
People on the street
anonymous indistinguishable yesterday,
are characters in a very American show.
A man takes out a wiping device
attached to a long stick
and cleans his car. Sketching neat patterns in the snowy layer,
falling snow outspeeds his progress
and he drives off.
Little ones walk,
overwhelmed by their protective jackets,
tottering balls of fur with hoodies and legs.
The cars, commonplace, parked in the lot every day,
become semi black-and-white, like the subjects
of photos in the 50's.
One man
has donned a summer beach hat
as he bikes on the pavement
crossing the christmas trees.
But it's 9am, on a Thursday after all, and my turn
to turn towards another screen.

Leaving from Vermont

Do we live in a world 

That’s already past its peak 

Small and big computers 

Fragment my distractions like the shredder of Banksy

Since I was born

I keep trying to go back in time

To simpler meals in huts and homes 

To the evening silence in villages of Udaipur 

Lately I strayed into the woods 

And I couldn’t leave without wrenching my self from them

Restaurant Table

You discuss your favourite philosophy and I frown, and so we talk,
till one by one, the rest of the party trickles by to say goodbye, and we are the last two left.
We order greek salad and continue the discussion and the frowning.
But the large table, communal a few minutes ago, becomes yours and mine.
The air becomes cooler, and the fairy lights dot the space above in a bright blur.

Boatman

(Volta river, Ada, Ghana.)

The clouds close overhead,
the water takes on a grey hue, mutedly shining like some molten metal,
the treeline in the distance is unchanged, muted and graceful now as it was in the sun.

The boatman is standing, one leg on the boat's edge,
a long oar piercing into the water, perhaps it could churn the molten silver all around, if he were a hero in an epic.

I try in vain to photograph the beauty of him, old man in an old boat,
strong, weather-worn, old.
Should I ask him first? He is too far. And moreover, he is part of the river.

Before the fireworks on the 4th of July

Big hallways up the pillars of the Supreme Court
(one of the three equal pillars of government, I overhear),
The smell of homemade sandwiches wafts, and the soft spray of the fountain drifts, light teal like the couch at home, on which I napped. And the quarterfinals are discussed.
Everyone's two hours early, in a tranquil wait for sundown,
And in these minutes before my friend arrives,
I think of you.

Lucknow III: Tourism

One evening I decided that enough was enough, the situation was getting out of hand, I needed to stop living by the screen light of my laptop. The clinching moment was when I ordered Domino’s pizza in the middle of answering emails. Here I was, on my tenth day in the city, a stone’s throw from the Hazratganj market with all the spiced kebabs of Lucknow on offer, for less than 200 rupees no less, and I was inside a guest room ordering Domino’s. (It was cheese-burst though, so I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.) And the European girl staying in the room upstairs had already been for a ‘history walk’ to the bhool-bhulaiya, after having arrived just the previous night. Unacceptable.

So the next day, on the way back from office, I got off at the Hazratganj bus stop and allowed myself to be absorbed into the beehive of people that was permanently present at the entrance of the market. The first order of the evening was to get a taste of the famous Lucknow kebabs. I floated along the waves of the crowd, using my elbows to convince myself that I was carving my own route, and slipped into the largest restaurant that wasn’t called Moti Mahal. (Every single city seems to have at least a few Moti Mahals, offering varying quality of what they consider North Indian fare, though many of them have nothing to do with each other. Of course, Hazratganj had one too. The common-ness of the name made dining in a Moti Mahal an un-novel thing to do.) The inside was grand in a familiar way, with tables and chairs wrapped in white cloth till the floor. The menu looked pretty regular, more or less the same selection of kebabs that the Delhi places offer. I ordered a safe-looking chicken kebab, with roomali roti that is ever a mystery with all the folds and whatnot, and a Coca-Cola which in my head was an essential part of the authentic kebab experience.

They took at least 25 minutes to bring the kebab and roomali roti, leaving me to stew in grumpiness from hunger. But when the food arrived, I got a taste of that Lucknow kebab magic after all. They were the simplest and softest kebabs I’d ever eaten, chicken with the scent of elaichi, delicate and powerful. The roomali roti was fairly Delhi-like, but with swirlier fairy folds, and even the coke tasted better after a bite of the kebabs. This thoroughly satisfied me, and I could happily go back to living in front of the laptop and ordering guiltless Domino’s in the homestay.