My Grandmother Sita

Dr Jyothsnaphanija reminisces about her grandmother’s incomplete life and distant times in this poignant poem – exclusively for Different Truths.

Days of festivities made her energetic.
She takes me to shops to buy
confectionaries and Hair clips for my friends.
She tells me to go for a swing ride
after lunch
to make myself active.
She speaks few correct English words
Reads interpreted lines written in
the mother tongue.
 
I argued whenever she had conversations with
my teachers about me,
“my daughter doesn’t read at home. Does she at school?”
“I am not your daughter in the first place”.
“didn’t I tell you before?”
Maybe she would have got the habit of
mixing up relationships from our village.
So metaphorically.
She used to misread evenings with sunlight
It could be her sleeping pills.
Take hold of her interpretations.
 
Her voice was tired
Like children repeating the same tables in each class.
She had nothing to give, nothing to take.
“for how long food without salt?”
I recall when she took me to the hospital
as a companion.
“what is this fire mark so well placed on your right palm?”
I asked.
“to scare the evil spirits.” She spoke.
“my parents arranged this.”
“this one? Didn’t you get hurt?
Didn’t you say no? Did you cry?”
“when?”
“before my wedding.” Was her answer.
 
“can you tell me about that photograph?”
She didn’t answer.
“mother was also asking this. So, you choose not to answer.”
She cleans my toys till they break.
She arranges papers so well for me to write.
“how did I write?”
“very well, my child.”
I ask her, “can you really read?”
“very well, my child.”
I believed what she said, I regret now.
 
“this much time for ironing that  sari of yours?”
She replies, “you won’t be late for school”
“why have they named you Sita?”
“didn’t ask anybody.” She replied.
“why do you waste so much water?
Would you merge with water?”
This was my mother’s question, not mine.
 
My grandmother had incomplete life.
She told me hundreds of stories to put me to sleep.
“You wrote these stories?
Then you must know the definition of exile.”
I speak to her.
She speaks to the people on Television.
 
“don’t play with sand.”
Her voice is heard.
“is there any name for the sand, slating forest?”
I wanted to ask this question.
She is not Sita
She is earth herself.

Picture design by Anumita Roy