Tag Archives: Indian Grandmothers

Custom-ary

On returning from a soiree, a friend commented on how ‘Canadian-Indians have a good balance.’ This was followed by ‘you want Indian friends that aren’t too Indian, but you don’t want them if they aren’t Indian enough!’ And therein, she succinctly contained our thoughts, a subjective threshold based on a hyphenated identity.

One of the many repercussions of belonging to a former British colony is a fallacy of one’s idea of self. Despite having the most globally significant democracy, India does not have a national language as with most former colonies. Consequently, the knowledge and usage of English becomes a currency to evaluate and discriminate, continuing a tradition of hierarchy

feature image: Simryn Gill, ‘Water Drawing #17‘, 2021, ink on paper. This drawing project is prompted by Charles Darwin’s 1837 sketch ‘Tree of Life’ in which he scribbled down a framework for his speculations in one of his early ‘transmutation’ notebooks. This intuitive drawing of an evolutionary tree is headlined by the words “I think” and is a precursor to Darwin’s radical theory of evolution, common descent, differential survival and natural selection.Kallat invites artists and audiences to consider if Darwin first wrote the words “I think” and then – when words could not capture his emergent thoughts – proceeded to draw, or if the drawing preceded the words. above image: from @indiaartfair, via ritukumarhq; ‘India is known as a glorious melting pot of people, cultures, and beliefs. Diversity and equality are fundamental to our founding principles.’

I am constantly fascinated by Hispanics, who, upon meeting one another, naturally erupt into Spanish, stranger or not. It would be unconventional for me to partake in something akin, regardless of being fluent in three South Asian dialects. So much so that if a contemporary greeted me with a ‘Namaste,’ I would be puzzled.

above image: galleryveda, artist: Ganesh Selvaraj “As an act of interpretation, we approach a visual and apply a metaphor. So first, we see a reference, and then we try to interpret it

Language imparts culture, but our mundanity sublimates our heritage. Indians dispose of Styrofoam and redistribute takeout in proper serve-ware when hosting. Ukrainians disdain the legal formality names evoke thus Aanya transforms to Aan-ichka. Similarly, Latinos add suffixes’: Juan-ito, Hernan-cito, Ev-ita, and Laur-ita, diminutive sounding forms yielding a burst of love. And when Persians meet, it’s customary to inquire how relatives are faring; this can last up to an hour.

I would like to believe generations have taken turns depositing small aggregates of an immutable sense of who we truly are.

above image: galleryveda, artist: Alagarraja ponniyah. In his works he represent the timeline in the minds of the viewers to reflect our history, present, and our future. He used reflective materials to not only reflect the objects placed before it, but also human emotions and constant changes of time. It depicts the visuality of human emotions in today’s world. He believes that if the world is a mirror of our inner world, any emotion we experience in our world is a reflection of our thought patterns and actions. The mirroring phenomena he explores are also the dualities of history and future, technology and environment.

Hindi films

Having no family in a 30-mile radius means creating and relying on an army of sitters. 

One of my mandates for a sitter is no screen time for Shyla; I’m starting to appreciate the irony in this because outside of homework almost all my time spent with Mataji involved watching Hindi films. Yes Hindi not ‘Bollywood’ films as what they started to ubiquitously be termed in the 90’s. Not surprisingly coinciding with the economic liberalization of India whose goal was to attract more foreign investment. This intrusion of the west brought with it a standardization of beauty and a resurgence of a post-colonial hangover transforming once again India’s sense of ‘Self’.

When I was young there was no need for the books I seek for my child; advocating emotional intelligence by illustrating that her heart can be pink with love, green with anger or yellow with courageousness. Instead I had Amitabh Bachchan. Undoubtedly one of the most influential actors in world cinema, and as child born in the 70’s I watched this star rise. He could be a romantic, an angry young man, a comedian and voice of reason. The Indian lens would deliberately loom over an actor’s face for an exaggerated response and contemplation in an eight year old. Not having the sophistication to gauge what was transpiring without fail l would incessantly ask Mataji as to what they were the thinking——and to this day it still surprises me that she responded every time. In the process I learned about human nature and cultural idioms. 

I recognize the same curiosity in Shyla and now question whether I should incorporate Bollywood in her life as a means to introduce some form of culture and language in a world deficient of such.

feature image: Tabu, a scene from Iruvar /new Indian express; images from top left: Sholay movie poster, amazon; Sanjeev Kumar imdb; Shashi Kapoor /the culture trip; Amitabh Bachchan/ India Today; Dharmendra-Sharmilla Tagore in scene from Anupama /dailyo

Immigration

As special as Mataji is to me I am not oblivious to the fact that many children had households similar to ours as a result of Pierre Trudeau promoting multiculturalism in the 1970’s. Consequently, the portion of “family class” or sponsored relatives allowed into Canada expanded significantly; skewing the system towards large extended families.
This explains how years ago in Winnipeg, a casual superfluous comment about our dear friend Garry’s grandmother, turned into an hour long reminiscence replete with mockery over these seemingly frail women who were the true dictators and puppet masters of our house holds.
It’s remarkable that across this new nation of theirs these women operated in almost the exact way inevitably rendering respect and disdain; and yet somehow they transferred a sense of culture and family.
This is what I grapple with now.
How do I transmit this being away from all family in a city not nearly as ethnically diverse (as the one I grew up in), in a country increasingly becoming xenophobic, to daughters who are only half Indian?

feature image: by Upamanyu Bhattacharyya; above image, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, seen here on June 23, 1971, pushed for a multicultural Canadian society later that year. Courtesy, Fred Ross/Toronto Star via Getty Images

Mataji.

As a child, I bemoaned the reality that Mataji never embodied the saccharine sweetness of fictional grandmothers: demonstrative of love, bestowing excess candies, and unvigilant of rules–essentially a complete antithesis to grandmothers.
Yet our house contradicted these conventional norms; it’s as if some imaginary force exacted a role reversal between my mother and my grandmother. In fact it was my mother who did the spoiling, while Mataji who lived a disciplined lifestyle saw no reason why a child need not follow the same rigors, thus a Vedic wizard was created well versed in all the mantras necessary to perform havans by the age of eight. In addition to this, her manner of tutoring was steeped in rote memorization. Ensuring her teachings weren’t in vain, she implemented a ritual for memory enhancement requiring me to consume five blanched almonds every morning—five was the prescribed number for children and seven for adults. Loving this part of my regime, I looked forward to being promoted to adult status but alas children never get old and well into my twenties I was still given five almonds. Had I lived at home she too would never get old to me but I had the miserable burden of recognizing her fragility every time I visited and yet she walked on her own, while the walker stayed stationed at its post unmoved from my last visit.

Amrita Sher-Gil 1913 – 1941
THE LITTLE GIRL IN BLUE

Born in 1913 in Budapest, Sher-Gil grew up in a cultured and intellectual family who initiated and supported her early interest in art. Her mother was a Hungarian-Jewish opera singer and her father was an Indian Sikh aristocrat and scholar. She lived in Hungary, India and Paris during her lifetime, and her art embodies a bohemian combination of east and west.     

image; Sotheby’s

Mataji was part of a generation of women who were unapologetically tough, running households consisting of extended family members, and appropriating money for that which was essential –I was once told that mistakes in notebooks were corrected with soles of slippers because they were avatars of the erasers. it was with this very same prudence I thought she displayed her affections, not being cognizant that unlike my six year old neighbour who cleaned the house and cooked dinner, I was omitted from having such responsibility that my once precocious grandmother and neighbour shared. It is heart breaking that so much love can exist and be unnoticed. However, attention was not what she seeked nor validation, which is why only after her death was her benevolence with the red cross society, valour in aiding wounded soldiers and involvement in finding shelter for abused women (during Partition), came to light. Such was her comfort with self and confidence in truth that years before when someone usurped my father’s trials and tribulations (when having left India) as their own, Mataji held a quiet reserve as she unfailingly knew that her son was the true heir of those experiences.

The night when Mataji first arrived to Toronto twenty-five years ago, she entered the house with my father carrying her brown suitcase.  Ironically after her passing, when surveying her possessions there was no more than could be fitted into that very suitcase.   It’s as if her whole life was just us.  

feature image: photograph by Steven McCurry