I was visiting someone, but they were running late. So I had some time to kill. I happened to see an old lady about 80 years. She had kept a chair outside her home and was enjoying the winter sun. She kept looking at me rather expectantly. I got the feeling she really wanted to speak. So I went to talk to her. She nicely made me sit down and talked to me. About her life, how she came from Lahore, how her parents were well educated and so they educated her and her siblings, and how she retired as a Municipal School Inspector. She seemed very eager to share. She advised me about some things in life, the usual teaching being best profession for ladies, about importance of education, and that women should work and be independent. She reminded me of my dadi.
It’s been over 2 years since beebi passed away of cancer. When she was around, I wasn’t able to spend as much as as I would have liked. Or maybe, when people are no longer there, you always feel like you could have done more. Her father passed away early in life so she had a rather tough life. But she was strong AF. Mentally as well as physically. Even at 80 and heavily medicated, she managed to beat up a nurse in hospital once for irritating her! That was a funny episode for us, but not for the nurse I’m sure! As kids, mom would force us to sleep after school and we would often jump the window of our room, while mom slept and spend the entire afternoon with her. She would make us what we call malida (makke ki roti ka choora in ghee and boora). She would tell folk stories she heard from an old lady in her village. They revolved around themes of rebellion and women emancipation. Even though she could only sign her name, she did not have an ounce of shame or low self esteem about it. When we tried to teach her, as usual she’d say “ab toh agle janam main jaake padhungi main”. Another funny episode I remember is translating Shakira’s Hips don’t lie to hindi for her, to tell her about ‘aaj kal ke gaane’. Her reaction was most hilarious. So me and my sisters had that kind of relation with her. I tried hard to explain my work in so many different ways to her: sabse badi padhaai kar rahi hoon main (PhD), bacche jinko pareshaani hoti hai naa unko dekhti hoon main (autism), but in the end the only thing she got was paagal khaane ke doctor hote hai na, haan bas wahi banugi. She would always laugh and say, pehle apne ghar ke logo ko toh theek kar! It was our pet joke.
We didn’t inform her about the cancer diagnosis, she had months to live. And we didn’t think the knowledge would do her any good. So we all knew she was slipping away, with every passing day. I started documenting her last few days. I asked her to narrate all those stories she told me and my sister in our childhood, in her unique dialect. I made videos of that, because I knew she won’t be around for my kids. But I really wanted that if someday I had kids then they should know her and her stories. After she passed away, I’ve not had the heart to play the videos even once. Although, I’ve made multiple copies and stored them at multiple places, lest I lose any of it. One of the last few sane conversations we had with her was when she blessed me, “khush raho, acche ghar jaayo, ghar-baar dekho”. And I laughed and said, “beebi ghar ka pata nahi, par bar zaroor dekh sakti hoon”!
Talking to the old lady gave me a lot of happiness. It made me realise life is really short. And sometimes when we are running after life, we tend to forget about things and people that really matter. Elderly want nothing more than your company. Take out time for your grandparents or the elderly in your neighbourhood. Loneliness at any age is painful.
About the photo: August 2015. Me watching my mom make plait for beebi aka “saas ki seva”, because “khule baalo main ladkiya bhootni lagti hai!”




