That banyan tree still stands tall, its large canopy sprawling over my grandfather's farm, right in front of his palatial house, inherited from one generation to another. To be precise, inherited by the sons of the family from one generation to another. The daughters don't really inherit anything except the responsibility of being obedient and dutiful progeny, expected to marry into respectable families, give birth to healthy male heirs, take care of their parents, and be good sisters by giving up their share in their own father's property. I just gave away the recipe for brewing a perfect daughter in an imperfect society that survives on her sacrifice, yet mocks her daily.
To begin with, I visited mygrandfather's palatial house after fifteen years. I couldn't bring myself to visit the place where I learned to walk, talk, play, and throw unabashed tantrums at my grandmother after she passed away. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Every time I thought of the house that bore witness to my beautiful childhood, bereft of the one woman who made it a home truly in word and spirit, I felt I would choke on my own tears.
So here I was, fifteen years after my grandmother's death, without any invitation and without any reason. One day, I just woke up and felt in my bones that this self-inflicted exile should end. Not that anybody was waiting for me there, but still, it should end. The woman who had waited for me eagerly at the front door was long gone, and so were all the relationships attached to her. When the root snaps, the branches have no reason to remain bound to each other.
As I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar burst of air—not a smell, just the soothing brush of familiar air. A warm feeling crept inside me, yet it felt unknown, though honest. I pulled myself out of my whimsical train of thought and gathered the not-so-needed courage to go inside. What worse could happen? My grandmother couldn't die twice, right? Honestly, if people could die and take away all the memories attached to them, life would become easier. At least breathing would.
I gave the front door a slight push and went inside. Nobody really stays here anymore. Nobody really did, even when my grandmother was alive. She loved this house from the day she married my grandfather and died loving it, long after my grandfather was gone.
As I stepped inside, I saw Megha sitting on a charpoy in the balcony, weaving a basket. Megha was my late grandmother's most trusted house-help. She greeted me mechanically. I don't blame her; I had not maintained contact with her for a long time. She told me she came here often to clean the house, just as she had when my grandmother was alive.
That banyan tree still stands tall, its large canopy sprawling over my grandfather's farm, right in front of his palatial house, inherited from one generation to another. To be precise, inherited by the sons of the family from one generation to another. The daughters don't really inherit anything except the responsibility of being obedient and dutiful progeny, expected to marry into respectable families, give birth to healthy male heirs, take care of their parents, and be good sisters by giving up their share in their own father's property. I just gave away the recipe for brewing a perfect daughter in an imperfect society that survives on her sacrifice, yet mocks her daily.
To begin with, I visited mygrandfather's palatial house after fifteen years. I couldn't bring myself to visit the place where I learned to walk, talk, play, and throw unabashed tantrums at my grandmother after she passed away. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Every time I thought of the house that bore witness to my beautiful childhood, bereft of the one woman who made it a home truly in word and spirit, I felt I would choke on my own tears.
So here I was, fifteen years after my grandmother's death, without any invitation and without any reason. One day, I just woke up and felt in my bones that this self-inflicted exile should end. Not that anybody was waiting for me there, but still, it should end. The woman who had waited for me eagerly at the front door was long gone, and so were all the relationships attached to her. When the root snaps, the branches have no reason to remain bound to each other.
As I stepped out of the car, I was met with a familiar burst of air—not a smell, just the soothing brush of familiar air. A warm feeling crept inside me, yet it felt unknown, though honest. I pulled myself out of my whimsical train of thought and gathered the not-so-needed courage to go inside. What worse could happen? My grandmother couldn't die twice, right? Honestly, if people could die and take away all the memories attached to them, life would become easier. At least breathing would.
I gave the front door a slight push and went inside. Nobody really stays here anymore. Nobody really did, even when my grandmother was alive. She loved this house from the day she married my grandfather and died loving it, long after my grandfather was gone.
As I stepped inside, I saw Megha sitting on a charpoy in the balcony, weaving a basket. Megha was my late grandmother's most trusted house-help. She greeted me mechanically. I don't blame her; I had not maintained contact with her for a long time. She told me she came here often to clean the house, just as she had when my grandmother was alive.
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