Dibbai

Dibbhai - that is what I called her! my maternal grammy. I do not have much pictures of her as she mostly flourished before the digital era. I have memories and smells that remind me of her. I have few of her belongings and lots of her wisdom, stories and jokes. 

A teenage widow with two toddlers, shattering glass ceilings and stepping out to be a working woman at the age of 20, eventually building two houses, educating and marrying off her both daughters without any outside financial help, that was her. That is the tough part, the strict part of her. Most of her was the sweet smile, always soft spoken and giggling, loved to watch cricket and old Bengali movies. Blushed when complimented for her cooking and loved wearing floral sarees. The smell of her powdered hands and the memories of the stories she told, is what I recall of her. 

She woke up early, everyday and the first thing I heard was the click of the transistor button, before the static, followed by a faint music. Listening to early morning radio broadcast programmes were a norm at her house, along with smell of fresh brewed chai and incense that burnt during her morning prayers, she would mildly nudge me to wake up. She would smile and pour me some tea, we would discuss daily news and chomp off familiar bread butter sugar breakfast. Then we both would head out, she would hustle off to her workplace and drop me to mom's place on her way, hand me a 10 rupees bill, every time I stayed over.

Every Durga puja (Hindu festival) she would sew a new dress for me, even what I was 14 years old and I refused to wear her out-of-style fashion disaster ensembles. She would give me a toothy smile and say, 'sundoooor lagche' (looking pretty). I would reluctantly wear it and it never felt odd.

As my parents worked hence, I was left at her workplace during my school holidays, all her colleagues knew me and entertained a teenager. I indulged. She gave me sweets and cakes in Christmas and proudly showed me off to her colleagues and friends saying, 'eta Mou (my pet name) amar boro natni, baki gulo durr-e thake' (this is Mou, my eldest grand daughter, other grandchildren lives far away). She took interest in my friends and invited me to join conversations which were generally enjoyed my older folks and kids found boring. Strangely I found those conversations entertaining and relatable, I was always an old soul. We spend winter weekends huddled under blankets, munching on oranges and sipping hot chai, she telling me stories and jokes. She still remains my favourites part of early life, my mental picture of 'home'.

She passed away in March 2013, after prolonged illness that changed her and she stopped recognising me at some point. He passing never mattered as she is still with me, frozen in time, like this time piece which was hers. 

She would wound this every night, without fail, before her sleep and my last memories before I drifted off would be the mechanical ticking, blurring away. There is an odd comfort in the noise, I have carried this clock since her passing and always smile when I hold it. It still works without missing a beat and a time -tested monument of the saying 'if you take care of things, they last'... 

I am signing off with a smile as I think of her, until next time...