In search of tuberoses

My grandmother and I never had an easy or loving relationship. There was always some kind of tension between us, ever since I was small. And as a result, I don’t have many memories with her. I remember going to her house before heading for an elocution class in the area. I remember a few yellow rice lunches at the house that was later sold and demolished.

One of my clearest, earliest memories of her is from a few years ago. I was standing outside their house (the one they moved to later on), waiting for my aunt to come to the gate so I could give her something. My grandmother, returning from someplace, stepped out of a three-wheeler. I gave her whatever it was that I had made for them. She turned to go inside the house, but turned back to me and said: “I thought you hated me.”

People will tell you to not talk ill of the dead. My grandmother is now dead so I guess I should talk about more pleasant memories. But I don’t think those who are alive should have to make up pleasant memories for the sake of someone who is no longer alive. And I don’t think we should forget our strained relationships.

PHOTO easytogrowbulbs.com

One thing I do remember clearly about my grandmother is that she was always telling us to find tuberoses for her. Whenever we planned a trip, with or without her, to Nuwara Eliya, she would tell us to find a plant. And so, we’d stop at various flower shops, but we never found them. The shops had no idea what tuberoses were and so we always came back empty handed.

I think what really allowed my grandmother and I to bond was illness. She fell sick and then I fell sick. She would call me every other week or so, asking about my health, telling me about her health. These were the conversations we had. When we met for Easter lunch this year, she was quite stern when she told me to take care of myself. I didn’t quite understand what she meant. I was as healthy and fit as I could be by then. But her words would come to me when I least expected them to. Take care of yourself.

Now that she’s gone, I think about religion. When she died, I had reached a new low with my beliefs. In the face of a different loss, I meditated and pleaded under a bo tree. I prayed to the universe/god. I promised myself I would give up something in return for what was taken from me.

My grandmother was a Christian, I am a Buddhist, and I think most of the uneasiness between us stemmed from this difference in beliefs. When I had to get a scan done, she told me to chant “Jesus will save me” under my breath. “It worked for me,” she said. I didn’t remember to chant anything, Christian or Buddhist, while getting the scan done but I never told her this.

When she fell sick and stayed sick for months and months, I thought about how cruel the universe was. We talk about how there are sins we must pay before our time on earth ends. About my maternal grandmother, we always said she must have done a lot of good to have not been sick and to have died just 20 minutes after telling me she had breathing difficulties.

My paternal grandmother didn’t have a quick death, but during those last days when there really was nothing anyone could do, I wished she could be kinder, in a desperate hope that in whatever awaited us – heaven, hell, or another birth – she would find comfort and luxury and joy, if she did more good.

I think it was kindness I most sought from her. A kind word. A loving smile. This is what I wanted from her when she was alive. And now that she’s gone, I wish I could have gotten it. And yet, I think I did. She loved me, I suppose, in her own way. She called me even though I never called her. She would tell me about her day, her life. She gave me updates about the tuberose plant I finally managed to find for her (from ebay), just weeks before her death. She shared with me her recipes, and she told me to take care of myself.

And I guess I do have a response for my grandmother on the question or rather statement on hate. I do not hate her. I just never understood why we were so distant. I never understood what I did to create this difficult relationship between us. And I don’t understand why, even when things were nice and pleasant, she found ways to tug at wounds, to scratch at scabs.

Life has been too shit for too long, so I’ve found it hard to process her death, these questions that will go unanswered, and what her loss means to our family. Not having a single grandparent alive feels strange. There’s a weird loneliness attached to it, but also a fear. I look at my parents now and worry about them. They’ve become the oldest generation in the family, which surely can’t be an easy thing to accept.

During the sermon yesterday, the words “death ends all suffering” (or something to that effect, I have a terrible memory) struck me. It was so Buddhist in nature, and yet, I now learnt it was also Christian. I found it funny, that here was something our different beliefs did agree on – something I was only learning at her funeral.

I heard a lot of good about her yesterday. I learnt about the impact she had as a parent, but also a teacher. This person who was my grandmother was presented to me in a different light. And I also watched my cousins grieve the same person, but a different grandmother, as the relationship they had with her was different.

But at the end of the day, when coffins are closed and buried and left among others who are dead, grief is grief, regardless of how you feel or express it. Regardless of what your relationship was with the person now gone and what you wished your relationship was like. Whether you walk away wiping your tears or are dry eyed.

Grief is real and persistent and personal. Grief is grief.