My Grandmother And Me

My earliest memory is of my grandmother and me sitting in the backyard and making mudpies. I must have been about 2 or 3 years old. I had a miniature kitchen set with tiny pots and pans and plates and a rice cooker. I cooked lunch and fed her everyday which she dutifully ate.

My grandmother was a bit of a trailblazer for her day. Married of unwillingly at 18 to a man she did not know, she always tried to make the best of what little was available to her. Education for girls back then wasn't really considered important. I remember her saying how much she missed having a Masters degree in literature. She wrote articles for news papers and magazines which were constantly published. She appeared on All India Radio and she learnt how to drive her own car. Her marriage could be best categorized as volatile. Not once do I remember any kind of love between her and my grandfather. A man, best known for his searing words and hot temper.

I honestly believe that my grandmother fell in love with me the moment I was born. After all I was her first and only grandchild. Both my parents worked. So I lived with her and went to her after school as I got older. She was all that a grandmother should be. My mum never worried about me as long as I was under her care. As I grew older I saw her more critically and began seeing her faults. She had an eccentric streak, many times she tried to pit me against my parents. I always forgave her for these infarctions though.

She was also a state shuttle badminton champion. Many years she would drive me and we would go to the railway club together, where she would play shuttle , she did this well into her seventies. She wrote incessantly and she read all she could. I would dearly like to think she did all she possibly could in the time she had.

Now, she lies in a bed in her home all day. She is taken in a wheelchair to watch TV for a couple of hours every day. She is spoon fed her breakfast, lunch and dinner by a round the clock nurse who bathes her, takes her to the bathroom, combs her hair, basically does everything that needs to be done. My grandmother cant talk anymore. She can't move by herself. She cant see very well. I know for a fact though that she is mentally alert and can understand everything we say.

To see my grandmother as a shadow of her former self hurts so much, that sometimes I could just burst with the injustice of it all. I catch myself hoping death comes quickly and painlessly and then I feel guilty. What kind of person wishes that her own grandmother would die ?? .

I just miss her. I want the sunday morning picnics back. I want mudpies in my backyard. I want her to listen to me when I have work stories to tell. I want her to live forever .