Grandma's memories

Those were the days when going on a vacation meant visiting our extended family 

members in hometown. I did not go to exotic destinations in my summer holidays.

A trip to my maternal grandmother was most awaited. My other cousins , younger and 

older , too assembled in the 'dodda-mani' (literally means big house in Kannada, an Indian 

language). There was enough space for our battalion of cousins and neighborhood kids to 

play in the courtyard. And there was a bigger space in the hearts of relatives who 

accommodated us and our pranks. There were no project deadlines or school schedules 

to be followed. The Sun, moon and stars dictated our time-schedules.

My grandmother, the matriarch, who ruled with an iron hand had the softest heart which 

she displayed it at an appropriate time. We were scared and at the same time in awe of 

her. Her work started with the kitchen and ended there. Kitchen was her playground.

Cooking gas stove and cylinder hadn't made inroads into rural India and my little mind 

couldn't grasp the reason. Grandma cooked on a makeshift stove of bricks cemented with 

mud. There was a huge chimney area for the hot air and fumes to rise up. Logs of wood 

were used and fire was lit. 

                                               

                               (Indian make-shift culha/gas stove) (google pic)


The crimson tongues flared up and the matriarch bowed to the Fire God paying 

obeisance. All the Elements were worshiped. The food was cooked in earthen pots in an 

eco-friendly way.

My keen interest in the rural way of rural way of life kindled my grandma's interest in 

explaining each ritual and need to thank the Almighty for having a roof over the head, 

food to keep the wolf at bay and relatives sharing the common DNA for warmth and 

comfort. The simple truths later shaped my raw mind.

After all the food was cooked, grandma used to mix clarified butter (Indian ghee) with a 

tablespoon of cooked rice and offer it to the fire as oblations. The aroma of the food sent 

my hunger pangs into an overdrive and my mouth salivated. The human senses of sight 

and smell were awakened before touch and taste. Watching this ritual was sacrosanct to 

me while my cousins played in the courtyard.

Water was gingerly splashed on the makeshift stove and the flames quietened to sleep 

and rest after devouring 'prasadam' (offerings). All the Elements of Nature were 

worshiped.

A pair of dozen plates appeared and grandma used to serve food and love to all her grand-

kids.

Last summer I paid a visit to my ancestral villages. Rural India has made progress. 

Grandma's kitchen has made way to a swanking and sparkling modular kitchen and the 

makeshift stove burns only in my memory. I looked at her smiling portrait with a 

sandalwood garland around it. She has cooked memories for two generations, fresh and 

aromatic.

                                                 


This week’s prompt is fire. Campfire? Forest fire? Just burning your life down and 

starting over? Wherever this prompt takes you is fine!

Market

     YeahWrite’s Weekly Writing Challenge #388

Lord Surya doesn't smile on a September day on the island city. But today ,

India's financial capital is fortunate to bask in the warmth. Me and he took  

our bags and stepped out. The lanes were generously muddy. I stepped 

gingerly on the stones so as not to allow the luxury of sinking my full weight on 

the wet path. The path ended sooner than I expected. It was because of the 

good weather, he reasoned.

I stepped on the paved area of the market and my eyes feasted on the array of 

colourful veggies spread on polythene sheets on the ground and another sheet 

kept in abeyance least Ma Varsha plays spoilsport.

Each seller was drawing attention to every buyer to hawk her/his wares. The 

buyers took their own time to see, assess and decide to buy from the umpteen 

sellers. It was clearly a free market , the forces of demand and supply 

interacting. I imagined how the same forces would behave on the global arena. 

The ridge gourds , bitter-gourds, French beans, Cluster beans happily co-

existed side-by-side each waiting for its turn to end up in a house-wife's 

kitchen. The ripe tomatoes lay asking me for the warmth of my shopping bag. 

The lemons reminded me of the lack of Vitamin C in my body. The bunch of Dill 

leaves spread a smile on my face and I smiled back at its tenderness. The 

farmer's wife sensing my affinity for greens pulled out the most tender bunch , 

teasing and cajoling me shop and fill her coffers. The Spinach bunch too 

beckoned me to bring my old recipe of Paneer(cottage cheese)  Palak (spinach) 

from oblivion . My taste buds already on an overdrive. Both the bunches landed 

in my kitty. The Colocasia leaves were wrapped and tucked into the bag. 

Moringa's leaves(drumstick leaves) reposed in the corner and my 

mind in ' should I or shouldn't I buy' dilemma, voted on buying the next time. 

My heart was relieved. The Madras aubergines were already in the 

picture of my mind , being chopped and shallow  fried in the wok eagerly 

waiting to the coated with Indian spices. Junior would be happy eating his 

favorite dish. The cucumbers and carrots were weighed and deposited in my 

bag. My family's quota of roughage was taken care off for a week. Many more 

veggies were tempting to buy but my bag was already bursting  at its seams 

and screaming not to burden it further. I asked the farmer's wife to settle the 

bill. She verbally spelt out the prices of each variety of vegetable and asked me 

to add it up. I questioned her inability  to deal with Math. She shied behind her 

handkerchief. I teased her if I  cheated and paid her less. This time she lowered 

the piece of cloth from her face and accompanied with peals of giggles said that 

her tryst with numbers was bad but she was good at distinguishing people. She 

further reiterated  her faith in good Karma. The veggies at the Farmer's Market 

were tender, organic and chemical free and so was her heart. 

             I was touched by her simplicity in this masked world.

                                                  

Epistolary saga

Michael teacher, my second grade English teacher has asked us to get a blank Inland 

Envelope Letter. (It was a light blue colour rectangular paper which could be folded like 

an envelope after writing the contents of the letter.)



                                                  

               
                                                


 We obediently and eagerly spread it 

on the writing desk the and she engaged us to write a letter to our 

grandparent/s, of course with little prodding on her side. I took to writing, with a 

pointed Natraj pencil, like a fish to water. I exhausted the given space in no time and 

presented it to my teacher. She nodded and made a few corrections. With a 'chest'-full of 

pride, I showed my first handwritten letter to my father and he encouraged me to 

write a ‘real’ letter to my grandfather residing in Bijapur, Karnataka.

That night I sat down, post dinner to write a letter to my grandpa under my papa’s 

tutelage. The full moon kept me company and sleep did not spread its blanket on me 

that night and we sat late to finish off.

My father sealed the envelope with glue and  the recipient’s address written down.

My joy knew no bounds when I dropped the sealed envelope into the red colour post-box 

near my house.


                                                




 I shared the earlier night's episode with my classmates but none seemed to reciprocate 

my feelings. My child-like mind could not comprehend the lack of mutual sharing 

of happiness of my premier foray into letter-writing, an important mile-stone of my life.

My eyes strained to catch a glimpse of the khaki-colour uniformed post-man whose burlap 

sack was bursting at its seams with envelopes of all shapes and sizes. He would drop the 

letters with care and proceed to the next house. He was a regular feature around two in 

the afternoon, the time reserved for siesta. I loved to receive letters and many a times 

the khaki uniform feet did not make a halt at my door. I would console myself that I 

would definitely receive something the next day.

I had graduated from the Natraj Pencil to blue ink pens in my Secondary School.

                                        

My two pen-pals, both from diverse backgrounds from two different countries kept my 

burgeoning interest and enthusiasm alive by sending the postman to my doorstep 

frequently. We wrote about each other’s cultures, festivals, gastronomical delights and 

mundane matters . I was thrilled when the contents of the packet revealed a Pound 

currency note. An Indian Rupee note was dispatched from my side to acquaint her with 

my nation’s currency system. A rainbow of colors spread in my heart and there was a 

spring in my walk.

The Junior college saw me growing taller and mature . 

I visited my home-town, Bijapur, for the final rites of my grandfather. A close relative of 

 reminded me of my maiden letter written to my grandpa as a little girl and further 

shared of my grandpa's glee on receiving a hand-written letter from his first grand-child. 

My eyes could not hold the emotion and the dam burst. The indifference experienced at 

the hands of my classmates was wiped away with the salty outpourings. 

Stepping into adulthood and juggling  the twin responsibilities of running a household 

in my marital home and my professional duties I continued to give updates of my life to 

my parents and sibling  through my pen and it was a relief hearing from their side. Those 

were the days of pre-pay-phones days and phones had not yet mushroomed on every 

nook and corner of the streets. Moreover a long emotional chat burned a big hole in the 

pocket and I wisely  confined myself to writing exhaustive letters.

I noticed the light grey strands on my mom’s head, the approaching tell-tale sign of old 

age. This was not the only indication. Her writing in the letters showed a subtle 

difference which was not missed by my keen eyes. The alphabets were not in their usual 

shape, the spacing between two words was erratic. I realized that all is well on her 

health front. When gently asked, she complained of mild stiffness in her joints.Arthritis 

was slowly corroding her joints.

At times a sentence abruptly halted manifesting a change in her continuity of thoughts. I 

urged her to visit the family physician regularly. This way I kept track of her ailments.

A lot unsaid was said through her flow of ink . It is difficult to accept my mother's

approaching old age and simultaneous thought of my ‘ageing’ too.

With the proliferating of cell phones, the Sun on the epistolary saga has set on the 

horizon. 

On my last visit to her,  a few months ago I saw her making a list of grocery items and it 

was a pleasure nay a privilege to see her alphabets resemble my writing in K.G. I lightly 

admonished her to practice and improve her dots and curves. Life has come to a full 

circle, I realized. And I smiled inwardly.

I now call her up five times a week and with a change in her voice can gauge the coughs 

and colds surrounding her.

            Readers, do share with me about your letter-writing experiences.

                                                  


Notes : Secondary school starts from 5th grade to 10th grade.

The postman's uniform was a khaki coloured dress and a cap.

K.G. - Kindergarten. 

Natraj pencil - a brand of pencil.