Granny Tales 101: Chapter 5

This one took a while to come. Apologies for the delay. But I promise to be more prompt than I have been.

Today I talk about dadi and my piano lessons. Writing about this was unplanned but it seems like the best thing to relive at the moment.

My tryst with the piano began way back in second grade. My mother had seen a small newspaper listing for classes nearby and thought it was something interesting for my sister and I to learn. Our class was in a crammed home where the piano took up all the space in the room. But as kids we didn’t seem to bother. We were captivated by the instrument and the beautiful music one could make from it. And so, my sister and I took an instant liking to it and learnt fast. What began as a short summer camp eventually blossomed into a full-fledged class that saw both of us appear for Grade examinations by the Trinity College, London for nearly 6 consecutive years.

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Granny Tales: Chapter 3

Sundays with Dadi were a bliss. She didn’t just love food, she loved making it. Food was on her mind all the time. In fact, most of our family friends remember how she’d welcome them when they came home, “Coffee kudikaringla?” [Will you have some coffee?]. Soon after, she’d busy herself making a hot cup of filter coffee, that remains unmatched in taste till this date.

Sundays, in particular, were different because it meant eating Dadi’s special Bisibella bath with a dollop of ghee, garnished with fried groundnuts and crispy appalam to go with it. The waft of piping hot flavours in the rice would fill the house and soon see each of us tip-toe into the kitchen to see if lunch was ready. The menu for lunch was almost always the same every Sunday, with Vaanghi Bath [brinjal rice] being its only serious competitor. Once in a while, variety rice like lemon rice, puliogare [tamarind rice], coconut rice and tomato rice would make an appearance.

Dadi was always the head cook for these lunches.┬áHer mind would start working from the previous night. Everything would be mentally organised – from ingredients to quantities. And while everyone relished her food, she’d have a standard line after preparing each meal – “Innike seriyaave varle!” [Today, the taste isn’t upto the mark]. Eventually, this line became an inside joke as all of us waited for her to say it. We’d tell her that if she doesn’t say it, then something was definitely wrong with the food. This conversation would leave us all giggling.

Fortunately, these happy memories linger on and sometimes give you the strength to cope. They’re a reminder that the end isn’t the only thing to remember. What is important, is the journey. The moments, the times spent together, the love, the laughter – they can never be erased and one can only be grateful that it all happened instead of cry that it’s over.

I think I have an inkling on what’s coming in chapter 4. Stay tuned, guys!

Granny Tales 101: Chapter 1

I thought a lot about what could go up as the first anecdote. The problem is, you can never pick just one incident that is close to your heart. So I’m just going ahead with the first one that popped up when I began writing this.

When I was a little child, I was always excited about excursions. My school used to plan day-long picnics to amusement parks in the city. I wasn’t, and I’m still not, a huge fan of these parks because I get dizzy on rides. The only thing I enjoyed about the outing was munching on snacks and being with my small group of friends, who fortunately never made fun of my fears and still chose me as their ‘excursion partner’. Continue reading

GRANNY TALES 101

The last few weeks have been quite tough. I lost my grandmother and death is seldom a welcome visitor or shall I say, never a welcome visitor. Dadi, as my sister and I fondly called her, was very close to me (and the whole family, but I’m going to stick to my personal account here). She’s seen me grow from a baby who could barely mouth words to a journalist and designer who runs her own company. And she had a huge role to play in it all. Her absence has created a void that can never be filled – not in my home, not in my heart. Continue reading