In a few days we'll celebrate a landmark milestone in my family. My grandfather the Patriarch of the gang will turn 100 years. What does a man show for 100 years of life? He's seen the advent of the automobile, even more forboding - the origins of the Industrial Age. He's come a long way from a boy who grew up in a tiny village in the south of India. Where boys climb trees for coconuts, goats are slaughtered for weddings and girls stop wearing dresses at 14, and upgrade to the traditional sari.
In his old village, in the old days he used to herd buffalos, work in the rice paddies, walk for miles to the mud-thatched hut that served as school. Nowadays he's lucky to find a swath of grass that spreads for more than a mile in residential Takoma Park, Maryland, to say nothing of the 10 miles he walks everyday for "exercise". Instead of muddy riverbanks he walks beside concrete highways, an activity that mortifies his daugthers. Where where else can one find a suitable stretch of land to stretch your legs?
When my grandmother died 10 years ago she left no will, no last statement, no earthly riches. She died - as many Indian women live their lives, carrying her wealth on her body - on her neck and arms in heavy gold chains and bangles. Her only wealth resided in two gray Samsonite suitcases ful of heavy gold embroidered saris. 6 yards of silk - the hallmark of Indian beauty got distributed first to her daughters, then her daughters in law, then her grand daughters and finally her great granddaughters. This is all the remains of her legacy. No rosebud teaset. No pearl earrings and necklace sets. What remains of my grandmother are pictures and memories that get startled into awakening whenever I smell my father's chicken curry. Whenever I wear her sari. And whenever I take time to resurrect her in works such as this. Tis a fine memorial.
1 comment:
Post a Comment