I write a note to my grandmother.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve sought your approval. For the choices I made, for all that I achieved, for simply being. And eventually I gave up. I consoled myself that it wasn’t worth the time or effort. With each passing year, I grew increasingly convinced that you were harsh on me just because I wasn’t a son. That I wouldn’t need to do half the things I do and you would have still cherished me more had I been your grandson.
He, who is the apple of your eye, who will take care of you for the rest of your life while I’ll go build my life with someone else, who will light your funeral pyre and carry your name forward.
And speaking of the grandson, you will probably be looking forward to him getting married in the coming months. But I hope you will not be too harsh on mybhabhi-to-be if she refuses to play shy and coy when our clan descends into her living room. I hope you will resist the urge to comment when she opts for a trendy kurtiover a traditional sari as you would have liked her to. In the subsequent months, I hope you will not judge her when she expresses her mind and sometimes, unintentionally, ends up contradicting your grandson.
When on the evening of her sangeet, she whispers into your grandson’s ear for a sip of rum and Coke to steady her feet and gather her wits, or wanders to the bar unescorted; I hope you will not reprimand her in public. When her hennaed palms, bearing your grandson’s name, nervously caress the long stem and rim of a nearly empty wine glass as she collects herself before she is put on display for the world to gawk at, I hope you will embrace her with warmth and lots of affection…Continue reading
*First published on Parentous.