An Unexpected Inheritance: Discovering What Didima Left for Me

I encountered my grandmother in the unlikeliest of places.

I never really got to know didima - as I call my maternal grandmother - as a person. There were no hugs, no story times, no pampering. When I was growing up, all I encountered was an embittered old woman who lived alone and did what she liked. And since my paternal grandmother also maintained her distance, I grew up without any of the grand-parental love (the granddads had passed away early) everyone talks about. So when conversations head to such memories, I remain silent.

It leaves me feeling - strangely perhaps - robbed. I didn’t know my grandparents at all, I have nothing to remember them by, I say when prodded. They left me nothing, I would say in my head.

And so it was till well into adulthood and years after didima passed away that I stumbled upon an unexpected inheritance.

Bits of her in me.

I may not have known her as a person but I grew up on stories of didima. My mother shared innumerable anecdotes - good, bad and downright ugly - about her over the years.

She would talk about how didima was a fiercely independent woman who did just what she wanted, much to the consternation of her joint family; how she had the travelling bug and would often go off on solo tours - we are talking about the 1940s and 50s here; how she created life-size clay idols of goddesses and conducted the pujas herself; how she loved to cook and treat people to impromptu feasts; how fashionable she was and how generous - I mean, who gives away gold bangles to a needy relative?!

But I saw none of these things. When my turn came, didima was but a shadow of herself. And the couple of photographs that are left behind told me nothing about the grim-faced woman who stared right back at me.

Then one day, I was gloating over a successful experiment in the kitchen when my mother stopped me. ‘But this tastes exactly like how ma used to make it!’ she said.

We stared at each other. I had never tasted didima’s version of the dish.

It didn’t end with tossing in this or that ingredient into a bubbling curry pot. As I grew older and began fighting my own battles, I realised there is more. I certainly don’t have her stupendous artistic talent, but a love for the arts and the finer things of life has been passed down to both her daughter and me. And we have had far more opportunities than her to hone that love.

What must it have been like for a really talented free-spirited woman in those days to toe the patriarchal line at every step? She studied art - a rarity for a woman in those days. But what was it like to direct her passions into nothing but a family which repaid her with the cruel ingratitude the way only families can? What humongous hurt made her abandon her children and husband and retreat into the life of a near-ascetic? What was it like to never be able to merge her inner and outer worlds? I do not know. But I can only imagine how strangled she must have felt every bit of the way.

There are other little big things that make me stop and reflect too. I think I owe my itch for the road to her - we are the proverbial rolling stones. That and the love for animals and solitude, an undefinable restlessness, a strong disregard for the opinions of that beast - “society”. These are not traits I have inherited from my parents.

Genes, they say, sometimes skip a generation.

My mother says I have didima’s stubbornness and what she calls the “courage of a fool”. Ha ha! But then, I am glad I have it! Here I was all these years thinking I had nothing, that they left me nothing. I only hope I can live it up a little better than didima could.

I like to imagine I carry my grandmother, her dreams and failings, her wings and demons somewhere within me. I like to imagine she would be proud of who I am today. Perhaps she would have encouraged me to throw parental caution to the winds to travel alone like her. I know she would approve of my opting to stay alone - just like she did later on in life. She would understand the urge to bet one’s life in the single throw of a die and the power to cut all strings in a bid for freedom. I like to imagine she would understand the need to stand alone on the edge of a cliff to feel the wind roaring past.

I like to imagine didima is living another life - hopefully a more fulfilling one - through me.