If Only I’d Learnt To Sew When I Had The Time

Say What Now?! — Edition 4

As a kid, I would love to segregate food, things, and most of all, people. So much so that I went on to label my grandparents as well. I added the prefix of their locations to their names, so if my paternal grandparents stayed in Bandra, I would call them Bandra Aaji and Ajoba (Marathi for Granny and Grandpa).

As a grownup, I don’t need that segregation anymore, since, right now, I have only one set of these oldies. It kind of goes to say a lot about how clumped up my life is currently, devoid of all semblance of order. My maternal grandfather would agree!

My mother’s parents played quite a key role in my formative years. More so because they stayed close by and their home was my makeshift daycare. Perks of being the first-born grandchild in the family!

Every morning, my mother dearest would wake a slightly stubborn and overly lazy, eight-year-old-me in the most loving manner, by switching off the fan. All sweaty and sticky, I’d pretend to forget the art of bathing and pout in the bathroom, until she finally relented and gave me a bath.

All this while my younger brother would gawk at the orange-hued streaks in the sky outside our compact bedroom window, and describe how similar it looked to powdered sugar. I think that was his way of sharing musings, as a five-year-old.

Stuffing the last pieces of Tea-soaked Chapatis into our tiny mouths, the three of us would set out for my maternal grandmother’s place. My mother, with a bag, so full of tiffin boxes that it could give Santa Claus a run for his money. My brother and me, carrying one school bag and one tuition bag, each (my father was big on tuitions, in those days).

My Nana-Nani’s place always looked like it had jumped out of a neatly organized drawer. Everything had its own place; even the sewing machine with its cross-stitched cover. Every surface would shine and try as I might, there never was a cobweb in sight.

There was a ritual we had to follow, before entering the house — taking our footwear off, we would carry it inside, to be placed on a plastic shoe-rack nailed to the railing of the living room window. My grandfather took this quite seriously and would insist that this was repeated after every trip in and out of his home.

I won’t lie, most of my time was spent trying to make that house a tad bit dirtier. You’d find me sliding under the sofa with chalk pieces to draw my version of the family tree on the inside, or smuggling in freshly fallen, flowers, leaves, and soil to conduct experiments.

And, my favourite game in the house? Get in as many tears as I possibly could on my clothes, so I could watch my grandmother take out her sewing machine from its dedicated corner and sew them all up. I was your neighbourhood Dennis The Menace any day, a quality that my brother didn’t get inspired by, sadly.

Out of all the memories I have of that house, the memory of their bowl of bananas has been burnt into my mind.

We would get two hours of TV time before we were sent packing to our respective schools. In the middle of watching the friendly blue octopus and his not-so-merry penguin friend, I would always sneak up to the bowl of bananas, pluck one out, and secretly munch on it, under the dining table.

My grandfather, well-aware of the little banana thief in his house, would ensure that his house never ran out of the fruit.

Soon, as time passed by, I grew less naughty and more independent, which meant lesser trips to the grandparents’ house.

As a teenager, whenever I visited their house, my Nana would never fail to extend a banana to me, with a mischievous smile on his face. A mirroring smile on my face, I’d accept it, with a chuckle or two, as I began to tell him about school and life.

Time passed quickly in an inverse proportion of the number of visits to the grandparents’ house. They stayed a 10-min-walk away from my house and yet I would visit them barely ten times within a year.

How many of us have had the privilege of growing up with such close relations and have taken them for granted at every turn of life? I’m quite sure you are thinking of them too, right now.

Come January 2020, I decided that it’s about time I made them a priority too. One fine afternoon, I stumbled onto their doorstep and rang their bell. Grandpa opened the door and his face broke into a smile as he ushered me in.

I stepped inside wearing my shoes, completely forgetting about the ritual. However, I was surprised when he didn’t point it out. That’s when I noticed the stretched skin on his arm, much like a flimsy plastic wrapper. As I stood there, watching him slowly take measured steps, my eyes fell on the empty banana basket.

Realisation overcame me in rushed, strong waves as I noticed the cobwebs and the missing sewing machine. I enquired about it to my grandmother, who told me that they gave it away as she could no longer use it, due to her failing eyesight.

For the first time, in a long, long time I greeted the vagaries of time, as I watched my completely independent maternal grandparents, go about their daily business, but in a slow, softer manner.

I decided that I can’t become a cliche, a grandchild who stood on her two feet and forever left the hands of her grandparents, locking them in the past.

So, I went downstairs with two things on my mind — a dozen bananas and Shezwan Fried Noodles. The former, my favourite, and the latter that of my grandparents.

As I rang the bell the second time, puzzled faces looked on as I took my shoes off and carried them to the window. Then, I placed the bananas in the basket and served everyone those noodles. Bright smiles and brighter conversations followed as one thought lodged itself in my mind — I wish I’d learned sewing when I had the chance.

I’m sure all of us have the same kind of relationships, some lost in the maze of adulthood, some misplaced due to sharp words, and then some out of our reach due to the distance. However, there’s one more thing we’ve got in common — time!

As we hope for a new normal now, let’s also set down the action plan to connect with our roots better. Because, the next time you walk down the memory lane, it should be a happier walk to remember, hand in hand with your loved ones.

Because, engaging in intellectual discussions for an upper hand will always come a close second, to goofing around with those warm, old relations, living in the house of love. Don’t you agree?