Layers of my Lola

The Sky is Pink Purple

This essay is about the life of my maternal grandparents after migrating from Sindh (present- day Pakistan) to India- their struggles, celebrations and a little bit on how I perceive the culture, including lessons I have learnt from them. I have started my writing piece with a short poem, describing the last day of a child in her hometown of Sindh, i.e, just before migrating. I titled the poem such because a purple sky, although can be just one among the many shades of the sun’s palette as it sets into its slumber sleep, it is often also significant of a storm that is coming- the ’storm’ being a metaphor for the drastic upheaval brought about in the lives of many men, women and children, as a result of the partition in 1947.

The wind in my hair

The mist in my eyes

A kite in my hand

As I run through the field of rice

I settle down in my spot,

As my heart continues to run

Like the chacha chasing the boy,

Who stole his mangoes,

His kasrat being no fun

I stare at the sky

An unfamiliar palette beholds my eyes

A shade dimmer than ususal,

I realise she* hates goodbyes

Today, my mind is surprisingly still

Like the clouds floating across the sky,

Ever so gently,

As if their motion were to wake up the sleeping stars

With a few bags,

And a heavy heart,

I board the steamer,

Ready to depart.

Note:

She* refers to the sky

Kasrat- excercise

My grandparents migrated to India (Mumbai) from Sindh during the partition in 1947. After coming to India, my Nana (maternal grandfather) set up his own textile business from scratch. My mom and her siblings fondly recall his ability to perform calculations speedily, despite having studied only till 5th form, and without even using a calculator!

Despite being uprooted from the place they once called home, they did not lose hope; they sowed the seeds of hard work once again, watered it with love and patience, to bring back the blossom in their life, that had been lost (snatched, rather). They had the rare ability to withstand both the sun and storm alike- with a smile.

My Nani (maternal grandmother) was a woman with a body that never aged, and a smile that never faded. Carrying an energy of charisma and grace, she was the most giving persons you might have ever met. In fact, the most polished words of the dictionary, will fail to do justice to her magnetic personality. She led a life of discipline- despite being treated for multiple fractures during her lifetime, she never wavered from her schedule: she cooked each meal for her family of eight (including her 7 children and my Nanu), and that too on a sigri (coal stove), watered the tulasi (holy basil) each day, and also went to the temple!

She could not speak English, but she could very well understand the language of the unseen and the unheard. Her faith in Sai Baba was like an indestructible WiFi signal, that could weather all storms, except that of course, unlike WiFi, it was two-ways. Some of this unwavering connection extended to all her children, with my eldest Mama earning the premium package (her attachment with him being one of the strongest as he had left to work in Spain at a very early age).

My Nani was the thread that tied her family together. In fact, her love had no concept of boundary, it extended not only to family and neighbors, but also the families of her childrens’ friends, the watchman, the house helper, the dog that sat near the gate and of course, the cow she fed.

Each day of my mom’s childhood was no less than a fun-filled concert, even more so during festivals. One of the most memorable festivals in a Sindhi festival is Thadri (literal translation: cold). It is the day the stove is turned off, ie, it is kept cool, as all food is prepared the previous day. My Nani would make papads and lolas (sweet thick chapati made from wheat flour, sugar and jaggery) on a sigri (which uses coal, instead of LPG, and is extremely time-consuming). Lolas were served with white butter (homemade too!) and a plethora of aachars (pickle) including those made from lemon, mangoes, dried mangoes (keri), carrot, bottle gourd, etc.

She narrated the story marking the significance of the festival, with such grace, that even the kids would be left mesmerized, as they left their games to come listen to her. She would explain how this day is celebrated to give gratitude to the goddess Shitali Devi, for allowing us to use the stove to heat our food and fill our stomachs. Drops of water are sprinkled on the stove to please the goddess. Miniature versions of these lolas were held to each eye, during the puja, as a mark of respect and reverence.

She always ensured that the food was abundant and that no one left the house with an empty stomach. She never complained, despite having to feed so many guests. Cooking for others gave her so much joy and satisfaction.

Someone wise once said that studying social sciences is all about discovering everything your grandma already knew. As I move into the final year of my degree, I realize that I may have mastered a fraction of economics, but Nani had rightfully earned her PHD in storytelling, emotional intelligence, and of course, domestic engineering (which is one of the toughest kind that there is) !

A picture of my mum's family- in the the top row are my her siblings; the bottom row has my Nana, my Nani, mum, and finally, my aunt)