An Ode To My Maternal Grandmother

This poem, too, was written close to a decade ago when we were in Tanzania and I had gifted it to my maternal grand father on one of his birthdays, a few years after my grandmother's death. They had been married for fifty five years when she passed away and theirs had been a 'love' marriage, quite unheard of in the pre independence India of the early forties. Tears rolled down his eyes when he read it. Through the poem, I have tried to bring forth all the aspects of my grandmother that stood out for me. I have used my mother tongue Marathi to talk about some of the things that she cooked which were my favourites! Since my grandparents were in Mumbai during my early years, we always visited them there and the Mumbai bus ,on the lines of the Red London Bus, absolutely fascinated a four year old me. That is where my poem begins. Today would have been my grandmother's ninety second birthday, had she lived! We called her 'Mothi Ma' which can be loosely translated as 'big' or 'elder' mother. We called our grandfather 'Bhaiya Saheb' which can be translated as 'elder brother/sir'. I have used these words in the poem. I refer to present day 'Mumbai' as 'Bombay' because it still was Bombay in the late seventies!


My earliest memories of Mothi Ma,
 Are atop a Bombay double decker bus,
Which to catch we would rush.
Car and chauffeur I would disdain,
Riding a bus was my only aim!
With my wish, she always complied,
With never a look nor word implied,
As we caught the bus at a run,
That it wasn't, exactly, her idea of fun!

Pink, blue, red, green, yellow sweaters she knitted,
And , oh, how how perfectly they all fitted!
Her love of embroidery, she bequeathed to me,
Bhaiyasaheb's eyes light up when they see,
Her skills passed down the family tree.

No birthday was ever complete,
Without a cake from her with chocolate replete.
No examination worth an attempt,
Unless she her best wishes sent!

Her home made chocolate was divine,
Never have I tasted anything so fine.
Her bhakri, thalipeeth, alawadi, I still can taste,
How I gobbled them up with haste.

Mangoes and ice cream were her favourites great,
She could finish off plate after plate.
I always heard her silk saree rustle,
As she moved around with a busy bustle.

When we were sick, her presence seemed heaven sent,
It was, as if, to us, her strength she lent.
Nothing could Bhaiyasaheb find without her aid,
They truly seemed for each other made.

She had a sickly yellow smocked gown,
Which always made me at her frown!
But she laughed off my displeasure,
And since it was a gift from my mother,
She wore it like a costly treasure!

Her room was always neat as a pin,
Dust and dirt there, to her, were a sin.
Her cupboards were immaculately kept,
Her room she often herself swept.

She loved plants and all life green,
Her Bonsais were a thing to be seen.
She gave Bhaiyasaheb insulin injections for thirty years and more,
And never once thought of it as a chore.

Her love of books my mother imbibed,
For with those, she often her children bribed!
A visit to the dentist was worth the pain,
For at the end there was often a book to gain!

If, at times, she seemed haughty and proud, snobbish and standoffish,
It was not her fault, you see.
For she came from a premier family - the Pant Pratinidhi.
From Princess Royale, to a commoner's wife,
It must have been, for her, quite a strife.

A family legend I'll quote, if I may,
"Is there any more jewellery you need?"
She was asked on her wedding day.
"Yes, diamond ear studs I don't see,
Could you please buy them for me?"

Her in laws soon the 'error' rectified,
But in thinking, must have been quite petrified,
"Was this, then, their son's 'shy' bride?"

But she proved her critics wrong.
And soon to her they began to throng.
For help, advice, or just company,
She became the rock of the family.
Calm, competent, and so very strong.
With her at the helm no crisis ever lasted long!

After fifty five years of married life,
Bhaiyasaheb admitted with great pride,
"His blessings had multiplied,
His choice had been justified!"