Dear Dadi Jan,

You know how on some days you wake up with the sun and there is this doom that falls heavy on your chest, and you lay without moving for several minutes, wondering if today would be a bad day? It was a Wednesday. My friend Neha baked me a cupcake and a letter stuck inside a walnut shell telling me she loves me. I was one of the four people that passed a Math mid-term by four marks. I was surrounded by friends. I was happy. I was so happy that I remember there was a skip in my saunter as I rang the home bell, impatient to tell amma all about my good day. 

I remember Amma opened the door and I followed her to the darkroom where my ironed clothes were sprawled carelessly on her bed. I turned around to look into her red, barely dry eyes. My heart sank a little. I knew something terrible had happened. But, Dadi Jan, terrible is not even close to how I felt when she told me you’ve left us forever.

Numb and scared I was sitting when they called me downstairs to say my final goodbyes. It’s been six years, Dadi Jan, but I still haven’t been able to say my final goodbye to you. I remember running downstairs, bare feet, hair obscuring my face like wild grackles on a gloomy thoroughfare; I remember seeing your body lying there— alone, cold, bloodless, and unusually tall; I remember thinking how not a long ago, you, me, and Ungela would fit into one bed. I would fall asleep listening to all the fables you would remember from your hometown in India. I once asked you for 20 rupees to get french fries from the uncle near the corner kirana from our galli, and your eyes became a circle with a gorgeous droplet of ivy blue, and you told me “Hamerey Zamaney Mai’, in India, your father, and my great grandfather, would get grocery in 20 rupees that would last the entire year, unlike my dabba that would finish within 20 minutes. But, you’d give me 20 rupees. And, then another one. And, then another one. Your heart and your will to be generous were as endless as the morning sky.

You always talked a lot about Aam Ke Bagh that would grow near your house, and how you and your brother loved playing there. I sometimes wonder what you were like as a child. I’ve always seen you old. Wrinkled. Beautiful. But, now that there is a gaping hole without you here, my imagination runs, Dadi Jan. I try to remember to pray for your sick cousin whom you had to take care of and loved so very much. I wonder what your little house would have been like with you and your parents and your Tayas family? I wonder if the chakki grinder and the woodstove still exist somewhere. I wonder what your home looks like now. 

I always wanted to know more about Dada Jan from you, but for some reason, we never talked about him. I wish I could turn to you now, and like a child, I would muster question after question. My mind tells me you told me Dada Jan and his family lived in a town different from yours, but nearby; I  remember you telling me how you had to leave with him on Tangey Ki Safari and how talking to him would be hard over the clopping of the hooves. I am holding your Nikkah’s dress, Dadi Jan — you were once so little, so naive, so brave. Your hair wasn’t bride red then, I wonder what colour your hair was and how it looked with this magnificent pink dress. I wish I had asked you about your original hair colour. These pictures don’t tell me the truth, Dadi Jan. They don’t make me feel better, they only remind me you’re so far gone.

Was it hard to leave your home? Your family? The Aam ke Bagh and the sehens? We never talked about partition pain because I was too little to understand then, but your tears that you wiped ever so silently didn’t go unnoticed when you, amma, and I would watch Daastan on television many years ago. You had all this pain inside you. I wish I could’ve asked more. Was it hard to be in a new country, old land? Was it hard to be newly married with a kid in a place where you knew nobody? Dada Jan and you settled in Lahore for a while, but then you had to move to Karachi alone as Dada Jan had to keep working in the railways. You both had nine children. Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman! You took care of nine children alone in a city as humongous as Karachi. Dada Jan was lonely in Lahore. I never met him. I’ve only seen two photographs of him. But, I am so grateful that he had it in him to pen down his life in the thick diary you always kept so safe with you. But, I think of you and how isolated your life must have been for a long, long while. 

Papa had a plethora of friends. People still stop me at weddings and tell me the legends of his youth. Asad chachu and Mohsin chachu also had plenty of friends. Your house was their house, is what they tell me. But, Dadi Jan, I am in awe of you and how you managed to not only feed your own children, but their companions, and kept so many people content. I know you used to teach neighbours’ kids Quran. I know in my heart that you were a wonderful teacher. I remember when you taught me how to pray Maghrib, and then Asr, and how patient and kind you were to me. And, I wonder how many people think of kindness and think of you? You and your white chadder were against the world, isn’t it? And, it aches my heart because no one deserves to be resilient every single day of their lives. Dadi Jan, I hope you had a friend you could lean onto and cry with once in a while. I wish I was that friend for you.

You were good at so many things! You knew how to cook. Your mirchi achaar is still missed by many. In the last few weeks when I had you, when you didn’t have your memory, and the urine bag was protruding from under your shalwar with wires poking in your body that looked painful, I remember I was on the duty to ensure you wouldn’t get up. Oh, Dadi Jan, all your life you’ve been so patient, but your old age made you restless. You wouldn’t sit for a minute. And, when you wanted to get up, I remember holding you down gently, but your eyes were distraught. “Machli per masala lagana hai,” you would tell me angrily. I reminded you there is no one at home, but you would argue with me, tell me there are people waiting to be fed. In your head, and in your heart, even in your agony, you wanted to serve others. I told you I’d do it. And 5 minutes later, when I did, you held my face, called me such warm names, and told me to always oil my hand before using spices. Dadi Jan, I haven’t made machli yet, but I’ll never forget your advice. My hands will never hurt because of you. Your food. Or how you used to sew pillows. Do you know Dadi Jan I still sleep on the yellow pillow you sewed for me? It brings me comfort. And the pillowcases you sewed are still in Ungela’s room. I think they bring her comfort. And, in the dark, your famous white tasbeeh illuminates my room as a reminder that light exists in this world. The beads you’d sit with every morning after breakfast to string together to form a new tasbeeh are with me. In a tiny box. The beads feel like stars I get to hold in my palm and when I open my fist, they emanate light as you did in my life.

Life wasn’t easy for you, was it, Dadi Jan? Loneliness breathed life out of you and became a towering leviathan. Your hair becomes brighter with age. The red that would put the sun to shame. Remember when someone in Sydney stopped you to ask what hair dye you use? Oh, the bravery you exhibited. I remember when you told me you got stranded in China alone. Or how you travel to Australia alone. You were always a force of nature. But, the force weakened with time. I could see it in your eyes. When your house got sold, you had nothing left to call home. Not the Sehen, or the charpaye, or the mini-fridge you were ever so protective of. 

The world was moving fast. You had to shift homes. You could no longer wake up and go to the neighbour Jamal Uncle’s mother’s house and have chai with her. We got you a phone to keep in touch, but you were always so helpless. For a woman who once did everything on her own, now you had to rely on everyone else for little things. I saw how that killed you, but I was too little to understand then, Dadi Jan. I would huff and pout too when you’d asked me to make a second call within an hour. All I had to do was move my fingers, but I wish I had treated you better, Dadi Jan. You were always so careful about your things. Because even with weak bones and shaky hands, you wanted to be your own person. Constantly, you’d had to change houses. Live some days with us, some days with Chachu. Your bags were always on the go, but you were always so ready. Your Ensure box, your Horlicks tin, your olive oil bottle. You always took care of everyone and yourself Dadi Jan. 

Your Paandaan still dominates the conversations after every family dinner, after every family fight, and after every family reunion. Qamar chachu tries really hard to mirror your style, but they all speak of love that would ooze out of the paan you’d make. It was your love language, wasn’t it? You were often quiet. And, when you’d speak, your voice was always soft and thin. We would often have to ask you to repeat yourself, and it would always vex you. You’d shake your head, you’d fold a pan, and you’d quietly hand it over. After you were gone Dadi Jan, the smell of coconut and Tambakoo lingered in your Pandaani for a while. I still try to sniff it to get a whiff of your existence that once brought me all the placidity I ever needed.

Amnesia had begun to disseminate your life like the first raindrop before a storm. It started with you forgetting your money. Your husband’s pension was still a guarding factor that kept your head high. I remember how you would secure that money in the tiniest purple pouch and tuck it in the fold of your shalwar. It was the closest place to you. Every time we would want a 5 rupee coin or a 1000 rupee note, you would yank the pouch from your shalwar, and give money to whoever needed it. And, while you would often forget what you had for breakfast, and then eventually what day of the week it is, to forgetting the names of your children and grandchildren, you remembered India. And your relatives. And your house. I remember that one night you were roaming around the house in the dark. I knew you were up but I felt so sleepy, that I picked my slumber over you. And, I remember waking up with a jolt when you pulled a pillow from under my head. It perturbed me so much. I was angry at you. I had school in the morning and you had ruined my trail of dreams. But I remember when I went to drop you to your bed— bedsheets, pillows, and your dupattas were sprawled all over the floor. Dadi Jan, even in your sickness, you were making a home for the people who didn’t have a home. You told me, “Ghar Ki Shaadi hai, Log Kaha Soyenge?” And, it would hit us, you’ve transcended into the past memories stacked at the back of your mind. You were again a little girl, You were back in India. You were back to taking care of others. Dadi Jan, your whole life, and your death, are a testament to the very fact that the world is a good place because good people still exist. When I can’t sleep now, I think of the time you’d hold my hand, and you’d recite the prayer after me, and eventually, your mumbles would tune into peaceful snores. Sometimes, I just breathe trying to tune my shaky breath to your once gently heaving chest. Some days everyone you’ve left behind is fine, just floating along, oblivious to our current and buoyancy, then abruptly and unceremoniously we are tossed from the sea. Forced to breathe differently, to forever endure the crushing gravity of your absence. There was a universe inside of you. And, now that you’re gone, the world is quieter. It will always remain in this static state and we’ll just learn to envelop our lives around this echoing emptiness. I hope you’re at peace. I hope wherever you are, you have someone looking after you for a change.

Rest in peace. Rest in power. I love you in this life and in death.

So much love,
Your granddaughter,
Eesha.