(I have never written this down nor actually talked about this.But I mentioned this to X about this incredible gift from Ah Ma when I was in my late 20s and Ah Ma had already passed close to a decade. I promised him I would tell him about it and so, this is it… This is written in the format of a continuing text conversation with my brother...)
You were so spot on when you said, " we were afraid to be nice to her (Ah Ma)". I was afraid you might not understand but obviously, you will. Because we were afraid.
In my latish 20s, I was still drowning in self hate and dark depression. Guilt, Regrets, Self-Blame.... these are some of the most common ingredients if one is drowning in that state. And towards Grandma, I had a mountain of those toxic ingredients. I reminded myself constantly of her invariable kindness and then lashed myself with the remembrance of my many failings towards her. That often I was still too young to know better and powerless to change her situation ... they were unacceptable excuses to my brutal mind.
I remember as young as 6 or 7, in Butterworth, one hot sunny day when all my siblings were out in the garden or doing their own pursuits; justifiably and sensibly making the most of the last day before school recommenced. And there I was, heart broken, sad and forlorn... because it was the last day of our holidays. I knew without needing to be told that there would only be anger and scolding from mom and derision and ridicule from my siblings should they discover this stupid sadness that overwhelmed me.
Then there was Gramma. She stayed with me in her room, allowing me the space to be quiet or sad or play with my toys or weep. There was no scolding, no ridicule... just her unspoken understanding and comforting presence that has now been with me for over half a century.
That and so much more, were the memories of my grandma. The one who never scolded even when you woke her deliberately and callously in the middle of her afternoon nap just because you wanted a dollar to go to the Indian man shop. The one who tried her ineffectual best, at her own physical peril, to protect you from the bloody lashings of the cane. The one who you asked to secretly wake you in the mornings even tho she had to throw pebbles at your window to awaken you, because she was no longer allowed upstairs(?). The one who sat with you and other sibling(s) in the breezy evenings, taking about death and God and lotteries, enjoying the evening sea breezes just so you didn't have to worry and cry about the loneliness of yet another new school.
The same grandma who seemed never to get angry or hold a grudge even though you are quite sure she was aware you woke her deliberately from her naps to get the forbidden dollar. The same grandma who bought you an ice-cream from the traveling Indian ice cream man only to have you throw a tantrum when she wanted a little lick; telling her angrily she could have the whole damn ice cream because didn't she say she didn't want her own ice cream when you asked before. And never once did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, she on her tiny budget, could only afford ice creams for you and your siblings but not for herself. The same grandma whom you showed reluctance and anger to when she had to beg you to please get her some cigarettes or lavender cologne from Love Lane; never giving a thought of how she would go herself and not bother you, if she only could.
My grandma who gave and forgave. And what did I ever give her in return? Round and round these guilts and regrets; salted even more painfully by my last selfish, arrogant, teenage conversation with her and by the fact that, as a young adult, I had a better understanding of the loneliness, sadness, and pain her life situation and memories must have inflicted on her on a daily basis.
That was how it was when Grandma "visited" me that night so long ago in Sydney.
I was asleep, exhausted from another round of inexplicable pain and sadness, guilt and regrets, blame and anger, sorrow and hopelessness. Grandma wasn't my only sorrow but it was a major one. The only one who gave without asking for anything in return. The only one who loved me unconditionally but to whom I was such a thoughtless prick.
I was asleep. And then I wasn't; even though even then, in the midst of it, I knew I was not awake in the common everyday sense.
And grandma was there. The same presence. The same comfort. But more knowing.
She didn't give the me usual comforts of "letting the past go" or I was "not to blame because you were only a child" or any of the usual well-meaning ineffectual reasonings.
She told me her side; her perspective.
Growing up, there was nothing I wanted more than my mother's love. Nothing. I did some desperate things to get it and failed. And pretty much continued to fail in pretty much the same way, for the rest of her life.
But there were some things I couldn't do. I don't know why. Maybe because we are sometimes born better than we become in later years. Maybe we are closer to our Soul's Truth and Integrity in our inarticulate childhood than we will ever be again in our clever, thinking, reasoning adulthood.
Grandma reminded me of this: The almost nightly trips I made with her in Leith St Ghaut. When she had to traverse the dark corridors to get to her servant's room in the back of the house... Groping by feel along the dark corridor, down the steps, through the haunted kitchen, ... with little to no light to guide her way. I walked with her. Almost nightly. And then she and I would kneel down before her one and only small cupboard and bedside table, her makeshift altar, light candles and say a decade of rosary together. It was a nightly ritual.
I don't know why I did it. It just felt it was the right thing to do. It wasn't a thought out process. It wasn't to be good. It certainly wasn't to win brownie points... Because the nightly price of those actions was, to me, incalculable pain and horror.
You know how you can feel the tension in the air when you walk into a room where the occupants have just been arguing? Or when you can feel the bristling heat of anger that stifles a room even though no one says a word. Or worse, when the one you love is steaming with anger at you even when they say nothing is wrong.
What met me every single time when I returned to the living room after accompanying Ah Ma to bed was 100 times worse. Because I was a child. Because I was defenceless. Because I didn't have the mature mind and logic to work things out and verbally defend myself. Because I didn't understand, couldn't understand why what felt right in my core was so apparently unforgivable on the outside. Because the person who punished me over and over again was the one person I loved more than anyone else in the world.
When I returned to the living room, I didn't walk in. I never walked in. I crept in, hoping mom wouldn't notice. But there really was no escape. The looks she gave me. The anger and even hatred that was directed towards me. All in a deadly silence that shouted and cut all the more because it was silent. Even if no one else saw or felt it, I did. If looks and anger and even hatred could kill, I would have died. Every single night. And in small inescapable ways, I did. No doubt about it.
Grandma reminded me of all this. Not just in words but it was like she took us on a journey back, so that we revisited the past in more than technicolour. And then Grandma told me how much clearer she can see things now. What she knew then when she was alive, she knew even more so now that she was on the other side. And she felt such gratitude towards me; that child that was me. That a child could and would risk the thing she wanted most, who inexplicably was willing to suffer an almost unendurable pain from someone who was her whole world... Just so she could provide some comfort to an old lady. How could she not be grateful for that sacrifice, she told me.
And just like that, I saw another perspective I would never have seen. And just like that, she took away my pain. And guilt. And regrets. Because that was payment for her gift of release.
It has taken me over 2 hours to write this out. I hope, now or later, there will also emerge herein, a message for you too. Because after more than 3 decades from that night, that you should be the one to stir this memory into written, shared words, cannot be a mere coincidence. ❤️
