Age:
High School
Reading Level: 5.3
Chapter 1
My grandmother often told us, in theatrical tones, the story of how she met our grandfather.
Here at the beginning of this story, I feel I should explain something. You must understand that in India, all women above the age of sixty are called grandmother.
My mother's mother is my grandmother. My distant cousin's grandmother is my grandmother. My friend's grandmother is my grandmother too. So is the old lady I helped across the street the other day.
But so you know, the grandmother I am talking about today is my actual grandmother.
My grandparents met at the Taj Mahal, the great monument, in Agra. That is where my grandfather, a young biology professor, fell hopelessly in love with her.
After all, she was a handsome young woman. Black and white photographs from the time show a proud-faced female in a pretty, patterned sari, holding a clutch bag smartly.
Chapter 2
I first met my grandmother when I was about five minutes old. My parents tell how she was the first relative to see me when I was born.
By then, she had lost most of her youthfulness to time and the consequences of age. But she was still a proud and peaceful woman.
Naturally, I cannot remember this first meeting; my earliest memory of her is in 2012. She visited us in Pune and brought along a Ludo board.
In the summer afternoons, we sat next to the straw cooler, where the cool air would fight the heat. She taught me how to play the game. Soon it became our favorite pastime during the day. Rolling the die, moving our pieces.
At nighttime, I would beg her to tell me a story. When she was wide awake, she would tell a gripping tale. When the stories were that good, I would make a mental note to ask to hear it again.
When she was tired, she would drone on with a bland, boring story. When the stories were that bad, I would point out its inadequacy, making sure she knew they weren’t as good as her other stories.
When I did that, my parents would firmly tell me to get into bed. I would protest—loudly—but it wouldn’t matter.
Chapter 3
I believe what changed her permanently was the passing of her husband. Years after he died, I would see her take out an old, battered photo album and cry. But only when she did not think anyone was watching.
I never went into her room to console her. To think I could make it better was childish.
Even then, I knew this was a private, personal moment. I would not trespass.