The Secret Diary Of My Grandmother ( ADULT ENTRY)

Arya was sad yet peaceful at her grandmother’s residence in Udupi. The crisp heat of Udupi in March made her crave the sugar cane juice sold on the pavements of the road. She sent Madhav, now residing in her grandmother’s house, as caretaker of this beautiful ancient villa. Her grandmother had 6 children, 16 grandchildren and 10 great-grandchildren. The 

youngest great-grandchild was born just a year before she stopped breathing forever. 

Her grandmother was called Par akka( short form for her Parvathi and akka means elder sister). The entire village admired her. She was the only literate woman in her younger era. She completed 8th grade in 1938, the highest level of education a girl could receive in that period of pre-independence in India. She lived 97 years. Her grandmother’s collection of utensils, jewelry, and a vague memory of making pickles at home astonished Arya. She felt her grandmother’s essence in every corner of the house, although the house was rebuilt around 34 years ago, with a few modern touches of the 1990s. The house had seen laughter, cries, fights, deaths, births, marriages, and so much more. 

Arya felt the house was telling stories of many people living with her grandmother. Arya was so deep in her thoughts that her 5-year-old son had to scream into her ears to bring her back into the real world. She squats and tends to her naughtiest child, who, with a puppy face says, “ Madhav uncle is back with Juice, but there is no orange juice.” Arya sits on the floor just like one of her favorite aunts used to sit, taking her son Advik on her lap, stroking his curly hair excitedly, telling him, “ The surprise is this juice is made of sugar. Advik likes sugar so much. Come let us take a sip and then don’t ask for more.” Madhav smirkingly says, “Advik, you can ask for more. The sugarcane juice stall will be here till night.”

Arya nods happily. Arya and her husband visited her grandmother’s house before returning to Bahrain. Arya sipped her sugarcane juice. Her vision was static at the (Appe midi) tender mango tree outside the window. The tree had bloomed with fruits. These tiny raw mangoes were used to make pickles. Arya asked Madhav if he or his wife made pickles from the raw mangoes. Madhav denied. He had clear instruction from my aunt, to whom this property belongs now, to call a guy from the pickle company who would pluck them and take it. This tree bears fruits once in three years. 

Arya had the urge to try to make pickles. She searched for her grandmother’s diary or another aunt’s diary who died a few years ago. She opened a green trunk, which had her grandmother’s sarees and, to her surprise, there were more than 40 diaries. 

She never knew her grandmother wrote a diary. She opened the most recent one which was written 2 years before her death. The first page with the date 02.01.2021. She had written her resolutions for the year. This hidden treasure written in her mother tongue inspired Arya. The resolutions made her feel proud as well as timid. The resolutions were as follows.

Remember to enter details of every day in this diary ( last year I wrote only 200 pages )

Cut the fruits by myself. (Hands are feeling weaker)

Walking every day in the early morning sun for 15 minutes.

Reduce the TV time and find someone to talk

Memorize my great-grandchildren's name

Sing a song before sleeping as I forget all the lullabies I used to sing for my children.

I am forgiving my daughter Savita, who passed away this year, leaving me all alone. 

Arya felt blue, and her face was like a wet weekend. She felt numb as whenever she used to meet her grandmother; she looked like an old woman with minimum hearing ability. Her grandmother had a brain stroke when she turned 60, and after that, her grandmother’s memory was acting weird. But these diaries have ghosts of negligence of how the family treated her. Her grandmother had difficulty hearing, so communication was difficult. So people started talking less with her. The minimal physical affection that she showed and others reciprocated. She had so much to say. She felt so much hurt. Her heart was an open wound, but her resolution to survive upheld her through the journey called life. 

Madhav comes with a special diary of recipes and rituals which Savita Aunty left for the children of the house to refer to. She was the one who tickled grandmother’s memory and kept the valuable notes for us to continue to live on in this home of a generation.