Kavita, on International Women’s Day, pens a poem, dedicated to her grandmother, Leah Jacob. An exclusive for Different Truths.
If measured correctly Little Ma was four feet, eleven inches tall, Or even smaller, That’s how she got her name. Her real name was Leah, grandfather called her Lily. I have a poet friend named Lily. Her name makes her special to me. Each time she calls me, Little Ma appears. Little Ma had thirteen children, Nine survived, one was my mother, The rest were the village that raised me, Loving, doting, aunts and uncles, Saviors from a strict mother. I wondered how Ma’s small frame carried so many children in her tiny body. I carried two, my body not so little as hers. Little Ma spoke Marathi, pushed snuff up her nose with one finger Then the sneezes started. At first, I used to count them, No sneeze sounds quite like hers now. To imitate her, is to be doomed to failure. She read Marathi magazines, Fell asleep with spectacles on nose, Snoring blissfully. Sometimes I removed the spectacles. Which rested on her gently heaving tiny chest. Little Ma knew one English song The opening lines went something like this: “On Monday I am happy, On Tuesday full of joy…” She pronounced full as pull. ‘See, I know English’, she said, Baring her toothless gums. Her smile gladdened my heart, The blood flowed red and freely. No pulmonary blockages there. Little Ma kept an aluminum tin, hidden in the kitchen. She said I should eat as many chips, Without telling mother ‘Mother is too strict with you’. She pronounced chips as ‘Chipas’. ‘I know you love chipas,’ she said. In Marathi. After her husband died She always wore a white saree. When he was alive, she wore white too. Ma made twenty-five *Besan laddoos. (Not sure why she chose that number) For my tuck box in boarding school I was nine years old then, We make Besan laddoos in our home. Little Ma appears in every sweet bite. There’s more to Little Ma. With kindness in her actions She spoke less and placed her hand on your shoulder, to tell you, that she loved you. I feel her touch. Her photograph breathes life. I retrieved it from a cousin, After four decades of searching, It was missing, as treasures often are. When they turn up The world is complete. Little Ma was a strong woman. She passed on her strength to her children and grandchildren She had no muscles or a ‘six pack.’ Just strength of heart and soul. Facing the world with little in her pocket But enough love in her To make the stars shine brighter, And bring the sunshine in.
*Besan laddoos are Indian sweet balls, made of gram flour.
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