Young love at 92

Ma. That’s what we call her. She is my great-grandmother. And she in a soft-pitched voice beckons us to come closer so she can embrace ...

Ma. That’s what we call her. She is my great-grandmother. And she in a soft-pitched voice beckons us to come closer so she can embrace us. This is the cupful of love and affection for our daily start-off. Ma, 92 today, is still as pretty as she was in her marriage photographs, years back. Her large eyes, that have no vision now, are full of compassion and concern. Also those eyes tell of a lot of unrealised aspirations and dreams.

Ma hails from an extremely orthodox family. After she completed school, she wanted to move on to college. Instead almost right after, she was married off to a man she barely knew. She was going to a family where women had to wear ghunghat.

And even today, she is seen in the ghunghat on her huge soft bed either praying or stitching. In spite of her blindness, she embroiders beautiful white brocades on her sari; and when she puts it on, the contrast against her pink skin is stunning. Ma is also a wonderful narrator and enjoys travelling.

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She waits for the weekend, and most of the time insists on going to the beach. As always, the sand is dirty and so is the water — polluted. The sun kisses the horizon but the bhel puri stands along the stretch of the beach are like so many blots on the horizon.

Every time we go to the beach, Ma goes to a particular spot and spends at least 10 minutes there. Though no one at home knew the mystery behind this, I would keep badgering her to tell me why. And she would always say, “Some day, child, some day.”

Just a few years ago when we went to the beach one evening, she went to that same place. Walking up to her, I insisted that she reveal her secret to me. She looked at the beautiful orange sky, her memories illuminated her face and in a faltering voice she said that it was at this place where she could feel the complete essence of her powerful love.

Ma had just been engaged to my great-grandfather. For the very first time, she was going out with a man. Friends prettied her up for the occasion. At the beach, she felt the still hot late afternoon sand. With her heart hammering hard and her stomach churning, she could initially hardly talk. But as the hours heaved like the rushing sea waves, it dawned on her that the evening had ended.

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As she went home, she thought she would tell her friends about the lovely time she had spent, about whatever little they had spoken, the way the entire evening had passed, recollecting every second, every comment. She wanted to tell them about the magic of that evening. But how would she capture the thrill that had waned so quickly.

Today, 72 years into her widowhood, Ma often lives in those memories. She has since that fateful day in 1920, not lived, just existed.