My Grandmother Wants to be a Dictator.

Nalini planted a mango tree in the new land, now as old as her eldest son. The house they lived in changed, people left for new lands to conquer, yet the tree stands tall.

There’s a new house help at our place. My grandmother unabashedly takes out her authority on her. She raises her voice at her, demands things from her, and at times scolds her too. Ammumma is constantly annoyed by the quality of her work. Food isn’t to her liking, the cleaning is not tidy enough, her speed and task completion rate – unsatisfactory.

I am not taking the side of our house help (maybe I am), but this has more to do with Ammumma than her being incompetent. I am urged to make her understand that the old system has long been gone. And now every person is offering their service for the money we pay them, and it doesn’t give you any right to own them; bottom line – treat them with respect. But in my grandmother's case, it is not that she is a proponent of slavery. It almost feels as though she finds herself to be one. 

Could it be true that she is trying to gain the little bit of power and authority left? Aging is a tricky business. Especially the last leg of it. Nobody really trains you for it. Just a bunch of kids trying to tell you how to be an elderly person. Ha, the irony around it. There’s no one to tell you, oh I've felt this. You’ll get through it. Do these and it'll be better. No one to guide you or explain to you what these new emotions are that keep surfacing. What are these new handicaps? You’re just supposed to know.

At different times she was a different kind of old. There indeed was a time when she used to tell me stories, a time when she used to scold me and I would listen, when she wanted to go out and stay with her other children or siblings. But now she can’t raise her voice at me, probably cause she’s scared of an if. ‘What if she retorts? What if she doesn’t listen? What if it affirms that I am growing powerless? What if I'm not important anymore.’

Her outings have reduced not just because it's nauseating, but because she is too scared that her authority and power in the house will be taken away in her absence. A kind of paranoia that can only be calmed by making oneself believe that the household won’t run without them. That the family needs them. I often hear her on call say, “oh i can’t come, mole. If I'm not here, who will take care of the house?”

As she’s getting older, her outbursts and annoyance are increasing. The more hostile she behaves, the less attention coming towards her. And this just becomes a cycle. A cry for attention, but you understand. 

“Angudu parayana ketta mathi, inghudu onnum parayanda”

I woke up to a bickering from downstairs, the kitchen if I'm not wrong. What is it with old people and househelp, I wonder?

“The day you stepped in, you’ve been trying to sabotage my relationship with my son.” My lord, I thought she was talking to my mom. So my immediate reaction to this dispute was relief. At least the internal functioning is not deteriorating.

My grandmother, let's call her Nalini, was born in a well-to-do family, so she says. I never heard poverty stories from her. My grandfather, on the other hand—as she puts it—was poor. It was an absolute downgrade, you see. She was this princess back home and here, a downright pauper. A lot of it, I guess, is exaggeration, but we’ll go with it for now.

When Nalini came to the land of my grandfather (let's call him Nandan), she was shocked. No prior information was given to her about the architecture of the house because there, when she stood in front of that one-story house about to enter her marital life, she realised it resembles a Nasrani’s house. Her religious sentiments were hurt. It was at this point she knew life was about to take a turn and she better buck up.

And before she could even process her matrimony to a stranger on what was a clear short notice, she would be incessantly struck by the strangeness of a world outside of hers. 

The second round of shock was when she noticed that the torsos of the women of the new land weren't exactly veiled per se. 

“If I don’t make them wear blouses I’ll have to deign to their ways.”So former tailoring expert Nalini began to sew. And sew she did. She made blouses for many. She became the blouse provider.

Her complaint still stands strong of how her husband didn’t let her pursue her tailoring career. She was supposed to be a teacher. So even though the household wasn’t so prosperous by his income alone, the woman was denied participation in the earnings. So she took care of her household. Her two daughters and a son—my father.

I stopped writing at this point. Picking this piece up after what looks like more than a year. 

Nalini was beautiful in her prime; I’ve heard people talk about her beauty and strength at length, along with her self-centeredness. It wouldn’t be a surprise to me if my grandmother at that point had thought that she was way out of Nandan's league. She always looked to me more of a rational than an emotional being – calculative, intelligent, hardworking, grey. Most importantly, she always got her back.

Despite her frequent alluding to a long list of trusted relationships, I would always see her as a one-woman army. Don’t get me wrong, I don't think she herself would say that she was lonely. But Nalini was cautious at all times. She had a clear understanding of her power in each dynamic and what it meant for her. She survived for so long that she probably never discovered one could even live, for a change.

Ammumma is a different kind of old now. Her arrogance, strength and power waning with time. She’s weak, childlike, and emotional; often losing what made her who she is—her control over her own expression of self. I struggle at times to meet her eyes these days. That somewhere the person I fought with all my life isn’t there anymore.