What comes to your mind when someone says Aaji? (Daadi/Grandma)
I immediately think of the real Masterchef from our childhood. I remember the one who used to cook delicious sabudana khichdi and thalipeeth for me. The one who would tell my mother “I know exactly what he will like. Let me cook it for him” with a sense of love and pride beaming on her face.
The one who narrated stories of Mahabharata to me and my sister. And also the same person who would scold my mother not to fast because ‘Gods would never want their children to stay on an empty stomach’.
I have far too many fond memories of her. Of course, I have seen her fight with my parents too. But the good parts outweigh those times far too easily.
I remember few funny incidences from my childhood. I had an aunt who lived downstairs, and the one who never got married. As a kid, I have asked my aaji at least a thousand times ‘Why does she not have children like other people?’. Aaji would burst into a laughter every single time I said that and instead of answering me, let someone else know what I had just said. I would just find it hilarious the way she’d try to control her laughter. Interestingly, she never told me anything else just to kill my curiosity. She’d rather say, “You’re a kid. When you grow up, you’ll know why.”
And I’d just add that to the list of things I was supposed to know automatically once I grow up. My next unanswered question in childhood was about sanitary napkins. As soon as the TV commercial would start, I’d demand everyone in the room to tell me what exactly was it. I had to wait all the way to my teen age to figure out why lady in the commercial was jumping around and later throwing blue ink on the Huggies-like diapers.
I think my aaji along with others cared for my innocence knowing well that that’s exactly the beauty of childhood years. I’m glad they did.
Recently, I went to meet my aging aaji. She has not been keeping well. She is bedridden and can barely stand on her own. It hurts to know that I would never see her cooking sabudana khichdi in the kitchen again like old times. I doubt she has accepted that though. I think she still thinks that she can do that one day.
When I sat next to her, she started asking me about what’s happening in my life. I told her everything was good, and asked her how she was doing.
“This lady is waiting for her daughter-in-law to cook her jalebis.”
“Who lady?” I was confused.
“This one. The one in green saari.” She pointed a finger at the television screen playing a series that she was so fond of.
She then went on to narrate the entire story plot that she remembered quite well.
In my mind, I thanked the makers of the series for keeping my aaji busy and entertained during her illness.
Thankfully, they make content for everyone. Funny how I never thought this way before.
While I was lost in my thoughts with my eyes staring at the TV, she told me to stay alert.
“What for?” I asked her with amusement.
“See, now a butterfly will come. It only listens to the little girl. This girl…Her name is Nanda. Keep watching…,” she spoke without moving her eyes off the screen.
I looked at her and the TV in turns with a smile on my face.
She was right. In the TV series, the girl whose name was Nanda then called the butterfly and an animated butterfly fluttered its wings only to come and land right on Nanda’s shoulder.
“How do they do that no?” Aaji asked with her eyebrows raised and the chin resting on the palm of her hand.
I had not seen her that curious for a long time.
Of course, I could see and knew that it was simply a computer-generated image of a butterfly. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give that as an explanation to her.
“How they must be guiding the butterfly to fly when they want and sit on her shoulder like that no?” Aaji smiled with joy as she asked me that. Her eyes were still glued onto the television set.
“You will know how. Once you watch the entire series, I think you will come to know,” I looked at her and smiled.