N is for... Nani

My Nani passed away in the summer of 2016 after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. It is ironical, because the memories I have with her can never be forgotten.

She had 6 children and 13 grandchildren. Apparently, I was her favourite. She had simple favourites – wheat flour halwa loaded with ghee, green chilli pakora cooked in ghee, plain paratha that glistened with extra ghee, and so on. She had amazing metabolism though, even with that amount of clarified butter, she was extremely frail and never gained even a gram of extra weight than she needed to.

She failed to pass those genes to her children and grandchildren though. We turned out to be fat and stout and gained weight even while typing the word ghee, just like I did right now. She did pass on great knowledge through tales – stories of Lord Krishna stealing butter was the one I heard most. I remember those beautiful summer nights under the clear skies in Ajmer. All my mother’s sisters would visit her at the same time from different parts of India. In the evenings, we would lay down mattresses on the terrace, hustling for space between us, and trying to find a spot next to Nani. She spoke of different Gods passionately in hushed tones lest she disturb the unabashed laughter of her daughters collected in one corner sharing their real-life stories.

In the mornings, we would hog on sel phulka, churi, dal pakaan and all other Sindhi delicacies. There were a whole lot of us in a small house, yet I never felt there was any lack of space or any shortage of food. It was a home full of laughter, good stories and a lot of fun.

There was a lot of shortage of water though. I remember holding a bucket and walking a few steps to get water by pushing through a hand-pump close-by. Each one of us had to do our bit to understand that water was precious. We used very little for our baths because we knew we would have to work hard to get the next bucket.

In the evenings, we would climb up the small hill in front of her house – Rajasthan is full of those. There was a temple at the peak. We would race there and ring the bell many times. After running downhill, me and my cousins would wait outside for the Kulfi-wala. At 5 p.m. sharp, he rode into Nani’s lane on a red bicycle with a red ice-cream stand behind him. We all would wait our turn to get the tille wali kulfi. Rich, creamy, and pure deliciousness – the taste still lingers on...

Last I saw Nani was in the winter of 2014. She didn't dye her hair anymore and looked thinner than ever before. She wore the same white cotton nightgown that I had seen her in before. In fact I don't remember her wearing anything but a white nightgown or a white cotton saree in all my meetings with her. 

Her memory had completely vanished by now and she didn’t remember her favourite granddaughter. In the one hour I sat with her, I told her six or seven times that I am Bhagi’s daughter – her loving name for my mum. She would laugh and retort – Oh, you are Bhagi’s daughter – and hold my hand.

She would then repeat a tale from two or three decades back like it had just happened. My uncle, her son, told me how they can’t feed her ghee anymore because she had developed a very weak digestive system.

I held back tears and just sat with her repeating the same things one after the other. Her memory had failed her, but her legacy lives on – in her stories, in her recipes and in our hearts full of fond memories from her lovely home that was the most beautiful part of our childhood.

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