A letter to my grandmother

What I'd say to her had her dementia not begun kicking in & a word of advice she has for the rest of us.

As I write this nano, you’re currently nudging my arm to show you what I’m doing on my phone. I’ve told you an ungodly number of times that I’m not talking to a boy, but considering how much I’ve lied to you as a kid, it's not surprising that you don’t believe me. If I got anything from you, it was the one odd dimple on my cheek, distrust for men and very dark humour that the rest of this family does not appreciate.

“No, nano, I didn’t use up any of the shampoo to make potions in the bathroom.”

I had drained the bottle dry, and fortunately, hitting children was illegal by then.

“Jee jee nano sara phall kha liya, aab chocolate le loon?”

I put the fruit back in the fridge and had already had three chocolates.

“Nano, I promise today is a school holiday.”

It was not. In fact, I’m pretty sure I had a class test.

I don’t know how you always figured out I was lying, but you did. Back when you were able to walk and intimidate despite your small stature, we would all often joke that you ruled like a tyrant- all five feet of you.

Though now, you’re tyrannical in other ways. Sure, you’ve aged, and you’ve accepted serenity. The mind does not stop where the body does.
Unfortunately, you’ve also found refuge in mischief to keep us on our toes. Deep down inside, we’re all a bit grateful you can’t hit us with your cane anymore, though even deeper down, we’re terrified because it’s an indication of your mortality. The only sense of permanence anyone has in this family is you. Each house, every room, every grandchild, every family gathering, has had you in it. I hope it’s enough to etch your memory forever. I’m not sure if it is.

Often you say, "Beta Huqm e Rab toh sirf Rab ka hee hai na." This phrase provides you solace in every instance, in the shadow of your eventual demise, it is the only time it does not spare me any. That is not something a good Muslim should admit, you'd probably scold me if you knew this thought. It is humbling to know that even in the conversations regarding your death, you must be the one to comfort me. How both guilt and relief can embrace just one person is something I’ll never understand.

"Besharaam auraat teri wajah se mai phass jaoon gee uper jaatai houi" Is what I like to think you'd say. However, I think God understands. He built me with hope, love, perseverance and will. I think grief, weakness and other fatal flaws were granted too.

---

I’ve visited you after a very long today, Every time I skip a few days, there’s a new wrinkle, a new tremble in your hands, a new ache in your back, a heavier pace of breath, a new sense of fragility in your body and they all indicate the cruelty of time. As if he lords over your bed, beside the breathing machine and piles of medicine taunting me. It’s as if every time I leave, he adds a few more big bottles of fat pills to terrorise me. I know your sight is weak; you might not see him, but the rest of us cannot ignore such a vindictive presence.

I could have drowned in guilt just walking into your room today. I will live to see decades more, but each second you exist further in our lives is a kindness we're all too aware of. Three more wrinkles in your forehead, a slightly increased droop on your neck, and a new tremble in your right hand.

You say you don’t care if I do not come every day because my exams matter more, but a truth we both don’t like to admit is that none of us know how much time you have left. As I said, time is cruel; he will not answer me when I ask him when. He just smiles and stares. The reaper looks away, too, and God, in all his might, does not verbally answer prayers. I wish he did. I know he won't.

You've stated you're at peace with this- the purgatory state before death, but I am not. Ninety-seven is a good age to accept closure; you’ve lived a life worth putting aside. There are enough volumes in the tales of Rashida, enough twists and turns. Enough joy and tears or anger and elation. All roads have an end and a beginning. You’ve got enough stories to tell the son you lost too soon or the younger siblings who swore they’d outlive you. You’ve got enough to brag to your husband about because “Oh, he’d hate to have missed this moment” is a common phrase you utter. I wish I could say it was with sympathy, but seldom do you take high roads nowadays; it’s definitely ‘playful’ triumph.

You’ve given the angels on your shoulders a run for their money, too. You joke that they’re likely begging for retirement, I feel too afraid to laugh in case they take it as a sign to do so.

Twenty, however, is not an age to let go of anything. Twenty is an age to hold on to things. All your twenties are, is a series of losses. Everyone loses so much at twenty- is it too much if I ask to keep you? You’re small, I can carry you out of the courtroom of Fate- all it needs to do is give me the verdict I want.

People around me mourn high school, the degree they should’ve chosen, the job they got stuck in, however, I’m already mourning you while plating your dinner.

You’ll be appalled to know that nowadays you forget what you say and repeat it every few minutes. The Rashida who learnt seven languages, moved across the world for her job and kept an account for even the odd cardboard box in the house would reel at that revelation. Sometimes you even forget my name and who I am to you, nevertheless, you’ve never forgotten how to love me. To stroke my hair as I lay beside you, to smile at me when you think I’m not asleep, to make silly faces because it made me laugh as a child. I don’t know if I laugh at you sticking your tongue out because it elates the child in me, or because I know- the only thing that is not fragile left in you is your perseverance. I’d hate to make a crack in it, of all things.

---

Death’s invitation is closure for anyone who's lived enough to be asked to come along with him, and it’s an eviction notice to their loved ones. When your time comes, I want death to know how much I despise him. I know he has no choice, but neither do I. If I must lose and he must gain, I’ll embody the greed of all of humanity for as long as I can.

How will my sixty-year-old mother adjust to becoming an orphan?

Who will be the first to dare to alter your room- if they even do?

I asked you today what you wished my age group knew about yours.

“Beta ye samajh jao ke waqt hee toh hai hamarai pas, aur baatein bhee. Na jism aab sunta hai dil ke, na jorain hamaray dimaag ke. Aap hee sun liya karo. Sab ka waqt aata hai, waqt toh guzaar na hee hai, jinka kam rehta hai un ke liye thora apna nikal ke guzarwado.”

“Know that all we have is time and conversation left. Our bodies don’t understand the will of our hearts, nor do our joints listen to our minds. At the very least, you should. The time comes for everyone, it is time, after all, it too shall pass. For those who do not have much time left, try to take some out of yours to help them pass theirs.”

Doesn’t translate all too well in English, but you’re a strong patriot who insisted on saying a phrase in Urdu despite being fluent in the former. I am not going to be peer-pressuring an almost century-old woman.

I think I know what you mean. I see the way your eyes light up when the family gathers in your room. You don’t ask for much. Bland and small servings of food. The same six novels repeatedly read. The same fixed time to go to the bathroom, and for those around you to at least make themselves known. Sometimes I think you find joy in knowing we can do what you cannot. No one knows how to live vicariously, like those who've lived long enough to be put on the sidelines of the opportunity.

I also know that you’ve not forgotten prayer. You’re much past the requirement to pray, our lord is merciful, and he knows you’ve paid your dues. I don’t know why you continue to do so. You sleep at odd times now and don’t pray right, but it soothes your heart. I think it is because it's the only consistency left in your life.

Your body keeps changing, your children are growing grey hairs, your grandchildren keep getting taller and busier, and you’ve lost many people already. In a sense, I think the embodiment of the phrase that when in times of despair, one turns to god, is present in your devotion to him. Be it the age of ten, forty-two or ninety-seven, you move in the same sacred rhythm, and he accepts it with the same vigour and joy.

Today, you repeated the story of how my mom left me with you for a year while our new house was being built as an infant almost six times. You did so in the span of two hours and one cup of chai. “Teri ma itne nakhrailu thee. Jaab bhee tum ne uske pas jaana hota tha na, tu roti thee. Menai hee tujhe paala hai, isne kuch nahi kiya.” I’ve laughed at that sentence and its multiple variations four times today, and I’ll do it a million more times until my voice gives out. I would ask the same questions to show you that I care. I will fake every furrowing of my eyebrows at the climax of the story, the same widening of my eyes at the grand reveal, and bellow the same laughter when you end it.

You’re the only grandparent I ever got to meet, the only one who stayed because I was worth giving that form of love to. Sometimes my mind strays and thinks ‘The rest were selfish with their demise, she knew not to be.” It is not true, but the brain is the freest organ of the body. Despite its cage, it still dares to function.

---

I miss the times when you’d hide the chocolates and candies anywhere you could because you knew your children gave life to greedy little devils you’d have to deal with. The top of the cupboard we couldn’t reach, under your pillow or even behind the sofa. We know you think it was sneaky, but little by little, we’d take one as the day passed so you’d never notice. I’m very sorry, though, with the way you build up mischief these days, it's a silent victory we all hold against you.

After eighty-five, you got your diagnosis of arthritis and, much to your dismay, we had to cut out your time spent in the garden. The accusation of supposed disrespect, when my father gifted you a cane, came soon after that. He's never dared to buy you another cane since. My aunt does that daunting task now. You rebelled by developing a horrible, horrible sense of humour. The human body is too sensitive to wear the heart on its sleeve; all it has the guts to do is stretch, wrinkle, fold and bruise. I think the reason one's heart operates within is that when all else seems to be different atop flesh, the mind has free rein to shift the narrative.

Teasing while attached to an incubator,

A wink in the emergency ward,

An eye roll at the idea of finalising a will.

I remember during a wedding, a distant relative came up to us once, and the conversation went something like this;

“Doctor Rashida! Pehchana aapne?”

Confusion painted your face, and it did so with such intensity that my uncle and I nearly believed it.

“Aab to betay umer hee itne hou gaye hai, aab chehray nahi yaad rehtai”

The tremble in your voice deserved to be applauded.

When she left, you proceeded to clarify in your own words, “Mai jaanti hou isse, mujhe bas ye pasaand nahi. Koi bees saal pehlai isne mera donga liya tha, abhi tak wapis nahi kiya. Bach ke rehna iss se.” How your memory fails to remember the time of day, and not decades-old grudges, will never not be fascinating to me.

Though you do remember less trivial things. Although here I can envision you arguing that a dish plate is not trivial and that thievery is a sin.

You remember what the subcontinent’s separation was like,

You remember running home during raids from school,

You remember meeting nana jaan and helping him assimilate because he was on the train to Lahore,

You remember being a senior doctor in numerous prestigious hospitals

You remember all four of the wars since the separation, and the terror that they unleashed,

You remember your love for gardening,

You remember every accomplishment of your children,

You remember every name of your deceased loved ones.

I think you hold on to these memories like a never-ending funeral of what your life was. Either as a prayer of gratitude or as a refusal to admit it's over. Either is something I’d understand.

---

Truthfully, when you and I sit together, we become two merged roads that create a roundabout on the circle of life. As an infant, I was fragile, had irrational fears, needed comfort, coddling, and attention from you. Now you sit in front of me, your loose yet soft flesh admiring the unspoken privilege of time's kindness in my hands- and I realise it's my time to return the favour for you. You refuse my help to the bathroom, you frown when we accidentally say out loud that you need the lighter mug for tea, and you cross your arms when you need to wear your hearing aids.

A few months back, a friend of mine lost her grandmother. I remember the shriek in her voice, I remember her otherwise collected and calm mother not being able to rise any higher than from her knees. It is wrong for me to admit it, but while my friend rested her head on my shoulder in mourning, all I could think about was how grateful I was that it was not you and me. Not yet. Not yet, not yet, not yet, but I’ll say that forever, until it is time to see the ground claim your flesh with my own eyes, probably during it too. Maybe even after.

As the days pass, I frequently think of how I would react when Time finally speaks to me from your bed and when the reaper has the audacity to look me in the face.

Maybe I’ll cry for days on end,

Maybe I’ll scream until my voice gives out,

Maybe I’ll despise everyone whose grandmother is still alive,

Maybe I’ll hate you for being so selfish,

Maybe I’ll stop eating,

Maybe I won’t attend the funeral in disbelief,

Maybe I’ll forget my own sadness to comfort my mother’s misery,

Maybe I’ll realise it is in no one’s hands and that I should just accept we all must be born, and we all must die. That is all that is certain. Maybe I’ll tap into the irrational side of the human condition and try to bargain with God as they lower you into the ground, one last try. One last prayer, one last hope.

For now, I find myself at odds. When I hold your hand, I’m already dreading when I won’t be able to, I think grave digging is illegal now, anyway.

When you lie to us because you’ve found solace in the elderly form of Tinkerbell, I keep thinking about when no more of those lies will be told anymore. The dead do not tell tales.

So I come every time I can. I speak extra loudly even if it hurts my voice. I keep showing you the same old family photos and asking you who the people in them are. I’ve memorised the names at this point, you keep forgetting them as time passes around this room. I let you keep the lights on because of your fear of the dark when you come to visit at night, in the morning, I’ll be the one to lie and say I slept great. Not that I can sleep much around you, the fragility of your body carries so much weight that it seeps into my subconscious. I might wake up, and you might already be gone.

All I hope is that it is enough. I know it is for you, but I am selfish; that prayer is for me.

Waqt toh guzaar hee jaata hai, magar kismat ko insanoon se kuch nahi, woh unko bhee pakra kar de jaati hai. Bas yaadien hee toh chupa kar hum saaray baaki rakh letain hai.

---

Authors note: (glossary at the bottom)
I love my grandmother to death. Truly, I am not a cuddly or sappy person by nature, but I am six years old and think she’s immortal each time I lay eyes on her. It’s devastating when the realisation hits that she is neither immortal, and that I am no longer six.

I decided on a prose post after the essay, this might be a bit underwhelming and might not be something many people can relate to, but part of the reason I’m on Substack is to learn how to be more okay with certain levels of vulnerability.

Question: Do you have grandparents? Are you close to them?

PS: The only thing I translated from Urdu was the part where she told me what she wanted the younger generation to know. It doesn’t read as beautifully or rhythmically as it does in Urdu, but I tried my best. The image is a photo of my grandmother reading one of her Urdu books. It’s my favourite one of hers so far.

Truthfully, I think Urdu is the kind of language where its beauty gets undermined when it’s translated. English and Urdu are worlds apart. Anyways, here are the translations:

Glossary;
- “Jee jee nano sara phall kha liya, aab chocolate le loon?”
Yes nano (maternal grandmother; can also use nani) I ate all the fruit, can I have some chocolate now?

-"Beta Huqm e Rab toh sirf Rab ka hee hai na”
Kid, the will of god (Huqm e Rab means the will of god as a phrase itself) is god’s alone.

- "Besharaam auraat teri wajah se mai phass jaoon gee uper jaatai houi"
Shameless woman, because of you I’ll get stuck on my way ‘up there’ (Humorous tone dw lol, and ‘up there’ as in heaven)

- “Teri ma itne nakhrailu thee. Jaab bhee tum ne uske pas jaana hota tha na, tu roti thee. Menai hee tujhe paala hai, isne kuch nahi kiya.”
Your mother was so dramatic, whenever you had to go to her, you’d cry. I’m the one who raised you, she did nothing.

- Nana Jaan
Jaan means love, like a turn of endearment you add at the end of honorific names for people, Nana means maternal grandfather.

- “Doctor Rashida! Pehchana aapne?”
Doctor Rashida! Do you recognize me?

- “Aab to betay umer hee itne hou gaye hai, aab chehray nahi yaad rehtai”
Kid, I’ve aged so much now, can’t remember faces anymore.

-“Mai jaanti hou isse, mujhe bas ye pasaand nahi. Koi bees saal pehlai isne mera donga liya tha, abhi tak wapis nahi kiya. Bach ke rehna iss se.”
I know her, I just don’t like her. Some twenty years ago, she took a dish from me and has yet to return it. Steer clear of her.

- Waqt toh guzaar hee jaata hai, magar kismat ko insanoon se kuch nahi, woh unko bhee pakra kar de jaati hai. Bas yaadien hee toh chupa kar hum saaray baaki rakh letain hai.
Time does pass after all, but fate does not care for people. It grabs them and gives them (to time), All we have left is the memories we can hide from them.

-Zoha