In the End
I write this with the intention that I would return to read it, time and again, to stay in close quarters with reality. My grandmother, aaji, is nearly 95. We don’t know her exact age; she doesn’t belong to the generation that kept birthday diaries. This is our estimate, and the traditional way of keeping age has not been far from truth. Aaji is the oldest surviving woman of her village. She occupied a pride of place in her home turf. A dozen people called on her through-out the day, and farm accounts and village grapevine kept her busy. After 1993, when her husband and my grandfather passed away, she assumed the role of the head of family. She managed ghar , and duaar , located on either side of the village street, with elan. Called as a master manager by my father, who has seen her toil through her youth to ensure education for her children and status for her family, aaji was not a woman you could fool around with. Diplomatic to the core, she rationed power in thrift installmen