As you know already, I do so despise the stereotypes that neuter women, preventing them from leading creative and exciting lives. The ones that make us feel constrained within our own homes, circumscribing existence to what the men will "allow" or not. [Who the hell are they to "allow" anyway but it would shock some to find this to be a universal phenomenon - one of those really negative trends that pervades cultures worldwide.]
But this peaceful scene in the park on a sunny winter afternoon, four elderly ladies on two benches, spied from my balcony, reminded me of my grandmother.
My grandmother was the most incredible person of my childhood. Strong, beautiful, industrious, she was a matriarch who ruled the family with an gentle iron hand (I suspect). There are two predominant memories of her: one in the kitchen, or engaged in some sort of food production; the second, seated somewhere with her hands busily turning out the next woollen garment for the next lucky person in the family. In the second photo above, you can see how she doesn’t stop knitting even to smile at the photographer - my grandfather!
Every now and then, I want to imagine what she would have made of her life if she had had the choices that I have, or the ones that my daughter has. She was extremely well educated, but perhaps didn't have our degrees. Her creativity in the kitchen and in wool knew no bounds. One look from her could turn our knees to water when we were little. And simultaneously, she was a favourite as we grew older.
Secretly, I have always believed that I was her favourite grandchild. (I am very sure the others - sibling and cousins will hotly contest this.) In spite of being the most rebellious, I was the one who took apart her sewing machine one summer when it had stopped working, figured out what was wrong, fixed it, and closed it up again. With a big smile, she prophesied that I would become an engineer like my grandfather. [Well, I had to rebel against that too!]
Of all five of us - my brother and my three cousins - I was the one who took to knitting and crocheting with a vengeance as well. I think she loved me even more for this! Between devouring the books in their library and eating absolutely delicious food through summer vacations, I also loved to churn out pieces crafted from wool while she watched with a mysterious smile.
However, the strongest memory I have of her is from one of my grandparents' annual visits to Delhi. As part of a theatre group, I was designing and painting these huge sets for a forthcoming production called "Sher Nikalkar Bhaga" which had an escaped lion on the rampage through a city. As the play was meant for children, the sets had to be huge and colourful, and painted like illustrations in a book. We had decided, after much research, to give it the look of traditional Indian paintings.
Needless to say, it required work. During the day I would attend college and at night I would go to the house in Nizamuddin where the group rehearsed. I would spend half the night painting (they were enormous 7 X 4 feet flats, and several of them), and sleep for a couple of hours before heading home at dawn. Shower - breakfast - college - repeat painting.
So, my mother was really miffed - this girl, she stays out all night, I really don't know what she's up to - and had actually stopped talking to me. Along came my grandparents for said annual visit. During dinner, a few days before the shows were to begin, I asked everyone how many tickets I should reserve for them. My mother immediately said sternly that no one was going to watch the play - since I had been "behaving badly". I didn't say anything and continued to eat as a silence fell over the table. Then, in a soft and gentle voice my grandmother asked, "Onoo is doing a play and we won't go to watch it?"
There was further silence. Later I realised that she was not asking a question but issuing a diktat in her typical style. No one else could have made my mother take her words back, but she did, and I was asked to reserve seats for everyone in the family.
After the show, my mother came really very close to an apology as well. She saw the sets, the dimensions, the designs, and I think she realised that I had not been fooling around when I stayed out the whole night. It was perhaps the first time in my largely misspent youth that she approved of something I had done. Did my grandmother know this? I am sure she did. And more importantly, she was there to facilitate one of the longest-lasting ceasefires between my mother and me. She helped my mother to see beyond what must have seemed utterly erratic behaviour from her once-sweet little girl - to really see that there was some worth to the work I had undertaken for my theatre group.
So what would my grandmother have done with her life had she had the same opportunities that I have had? I imagine her as a doctor, a healer curing people by giving them sound advice not just for the body but for the mind and soul as well. I picture her as one of the topmost chefs of the country, creating new dishes, jams, preserves, marketing them to a vast public. Without stretching my imagination too far, I can even see her as an exclusive designer of her own unique clothing line.
That's me wondering about what she might have wanted to do with her life. But that is not what she did do. She looked after her entire clan, down to the last grandchild, making sure of our well being. And she was peaceful about that life.
Just like the womenfolk in the park, basking in the sun, knitting for someone in the family, making the most of whatever it is that the world thought fit to bestow upon them. They were not asked either about what they wanted to do with their lives. They make the most of it because that is the only truth they know. But the world lost, perhaps, a great doctor, a path-breaking chef, a brilliant designer... because it didn't think to ask.
