Remember your grandparents, child?
‘The greatest gift you can give your parents is to help them look
after their grandparents,’ my father told me this about 19 years ago. At
the time his mother, afflicted with Alzheimer’s Disease, could scarcely
recognize anyone. It was not easy to take care of her for she had lapsed
into a state where she could not match object with use and we all
fretted that a moment’s negligence might see her doing herself grievous
injury.
She didn’t spend a lot of time with us. She had decided to spend her
last years in Kandana, where she had brought up five children before she
forgot herself, was unburdened of memories sweet and tragic and had to
inhabit the realities that others believed she preferred.
Grandparents
Before forgetting set in, however, she was Archchi Amma. Grandmother.
Lucid. Caring. She pampered her grandchildren as though that’s what her
assigned task for this lifetime. It was the same with my maternal
grandmother. Pampering was her business.
I never met my paternal grandfather but by all reports he was all
about loving and giving. My brother was the only grandchild he saw and
he is supposed to have showered him with gifts. My maternal grandfather
was not given to cuddling. He told stories. I remember what my father
told me whenever I see children with grandparents. There was a time when
grandparenting was an inevitable part of growing up.
Children escaped from their clumsy and by and large incompetent
parents to the loving, caring and knowing arms of their grandparents.
Grandparents, for their part, were able to become young again for
although they would never relate to their children, they were totally at
ease with their grandchildren. Parents can’t teach their children. It’s
not that they are poor teachers. They probably haven’t lived long enough
to know what to teach and how. Grandparents seem to know these things;
they seem to have acquired with age the art of saying without saying,
teaching without instructing, admonishing in ways that almost seem as
though it is part of a game.
Moments of truth
Grandparents tell stories. What are stories if not reservoirs of
culture, heritage, values and insights that will make the difference
between making and breaking a child when confronted with those moments
of truth all human beings have to contend with? Grandparents are an
integral part of societies continuity; they act as binder but not in
sticky-yukky ways.
Grandparents are rewarded for all this. No, not in a bartering kind
of way; not payment in kind. It is not about trade. Children give by
being; by being insistent, by being demanding, incorrigible, lovable,
exasperating, impossible and so eminently ‘possible’ and in ways no
adult ever can hope to be. They guide the elderly gingerly back across
the lost decades made of broken hope and compromised forever,
opportunity that got twisted and the joys that were so fleeting that
they alone remained. Children are not in a rush. They have all the time
in the world, as do their grandparents. They know infirmities because
they’ve not lost their memory of crawling, experimenting, trepidation
and bruised knees.
When grandparents go, they take with them a century. They turn once
vibrant mahagedaras or ancestral homes into places that might as well be
inhabited by bats and other such creatures. I lost my last surviving
grandparent on January 1, 2008. It was just past midnight when I got the
call. I remember driving to my aunt’s place in Battaramulla-Koswatte. I
remember sobbing. It was the trauma of a child whose favourite toy had
been left outside in the rain and taken away by a stray dog. Something
like that. Gone-forever sorrow. The-world-end-right-now desolation.
Tyrants and jesters
My parents and teachers drew for me the map of my country. My
grandparents contoured it, drew in the rivers and lagoons, mountains and
plateaus, histories and personalities, tyrants and jesters; they peopled
my country and my life with stories.
I am not sure if I have ‘gifted’ my parents enough. I tried.
Here, today, among the living, there are grandparents, parents and
children. Of all ages. I am thinking of the myriad conversations that
are taking place right now between all grandparents and all children.
What a beautiful tapestry the threads would make! How poor I am that I
do not have the threads nor fingers for such a weaving! [email protected]
|