My grandmothers. Two women who raised families as single mums in a patriarchal society.
Elvira, my maternal grandmother, ran an orphanage in the outskirts of Hyderabad and never failed to show up at our house on birthdays. With a cake and a robust rendition of Happy Birthday. My last conversation with her is foggy in my mind. I'm sure she wanted me to love Jesus and pray daily. She clutched my hand as she always did and placed a sloppy kiss on my forehead.
Two weeks later, I moved to boarding school in Bangalore. The first three months were difficult, I was homesick and couldn't wait to go home for a break. Three months later, the happy day finally arrived. I was on my way home for a three-day break. Dad was waiting for me. In the car, he told me that he had bad news. Elvira had passed away early that morning.
I was shocked and angry. Mainly angry. The timing was terrible. My happy return home was greeted with mourning. I didn't cry that day. At fifteen, boys of my age contained their emotions to appear brave. Six years on, the tears eventually found their way out of my locked emotions. I was in my bedroom in Melbourne, recalling the guilt of not showing remorse at my gran's funeral. The tears flowed as I curled up on the floor, bawling like a toddler.
Jaya, my paternal grandmother, lived with us. The daughter of a preacher, she had a beautiful voice and taught English at a primary school. I remember her as being cheeky and generous. When my parents separated, she lived alone for a few years and then moved in with my dad's new family. We met once a month. She came over to my apartment or I would visit her. On one of my last visits, she was extremely good-natured about the cancer in her throat. She joked and laughed and we shared a light moment in her illness. She died a month later, on my dad's birthday. I was twenty five.
The funeral was arranged for the afternoon. I stood at the back of the church with dad. Relatives and friends gathered for one last farewell around the open casket. Someone dressed the corpse in a beautiful sari and lit candles around the coffin. It was a hot morning and flies starting buzzing around the coffin. My uncle sprayed air freshener over the body to get rid of the flies. The flammable spray drew the flames from the candles and in an instant, my grandmother's corpse lit up like a bonfire. There was a moment of shocked silence before the fire was put out.
Each time I tell that story, I can't help but laugh. The combination of the fire, singed hair and burnt sari was sad and yet funny. I don't know how you would react to that scene, but if you knew my gran, you would understand that she would have found it amusing too.
