In Indian culture the maternal and paternal grandparents have distinguishing names. In our family/culture Nana and Nani are maternal grandparents and Aja and Aji are paternal grandparents. Therefore my Aji was my dad’s mom. Her given name was Dulari (pronounced Dularee) and it means beloved or dear one tracing it origins back to Sanskrit.
Aji was a formidable woman. She was a teenage mom and raised her children primarily on her own (supporting them with her real estate rentals); with the exception of my dad who was shuffled off to his grandparents and various relatives because his father was not the man she married. So I’m guessing she was familiar with scandal and gossip. Regardless, my daddy was devoted to her. One of my earliest memories of her is when, I was probably around five, she traveled to our house in Couva and, with needle and earrings in hand, pierced the twelve earlobes of us girls. I’ve since had my ears pierced again but the original asymmetrical holes are still open, fifty some odd years later. She always wore catseye rhinestone eyeglasses, dresses and an orhni or gauzy head scarf. If the orhni wasn’t on her head it was pinned across her shoulder and chest at the ready. She always had a handkerchief tucked in her bosom and generally her money was wrapped in the kerchief and tucked safely in her bra. When we were quite young my mother visited my dad in NY and Aji moved in to watch the seven of us. I distinctly remember two things about her stay. The first was the delicious coconut fudge that she made for us. I can still remember the coconuty sweet taste as we ate it still warm in the middle with a shiny crust on top, snatching at the crumbs. The second, and maybe this is just urban legend, was her washing our cat. The story goes that she tried to give our very dirty cat a bath and ended up with multiple scratches calling the cat a “mudda-ass” – that was her profanity word. My dad would use it too when he was angry as both an adjective and a noun.
She was a good cook, but instead of giving us the red mango or other treats she would carry in a basket on top of her head to sell at the schools during recess, we were the recipients of her “bush medicine.” It was a noxious brown/green brew that she boiled up with herbs from her yard. It tasted terrible and we would try to pour it under the table when she wasn’t looking. I wish I knew what was in it today because I’m sure it’s probably a fantastic herbal cure-all that would sell like crazy. Once at her house she showed me a weed whose stem could be chewed and used a toothbrush. The lady knew her plants.
She gave us all our Indian middle names which I never appreciated and would try not to mention out of embarrassment when I moved to “no Indians in sight” Queens, NY 1970’s. But she was right; we should try to maintain whatever little ties we have to our culture whenever we can. She visited us in NY one summer and washed her underwear, placing them to dry on the bushes in the backyard right where me and my friends were playing; big old bra and panties drying in the sun. I remember them being enormous, not because she was a big woman, but because my humiliation was so big.
The last time I saw her was, in my 20’s, in Queens at my uncle’s house. She had just had a haircut and a blowout and her silvery grey hair looked fabulous. I have regrets, my main one being that I have no memory of having had a real conversation with her. I always felt so different from her with her old lady ways. Today I looked in the mirror and my glasses had rhinestones at the corners and my silvery grey hair looked fabulous. I didn’t have a pocket so my cellphone was tucked securely in my bra.
unbecomingjane 