She gave me coffee and delicious cookies. I asked Dhanush about the cookies and he said they had been bought specially for me. They did not want to serve normal biscuits as she thought I might not like them. From then on my mother-in-law and I have shared a very pleasant relationship. She does not interfere in anything we do and gives us our space and lets us make our own decisions. The only time she complains is when she hasn’t heard from us for more than a week. Even then, it is not a matter of the ego at all. She just picks up the phone and calls us for a little chat.
They always say that mothers-in-law cannot love their daughters-in-law as much as they love their daughters. After all, the equation with their son appears to change overnight and the person she thought was her prized possession now lives with someone else. And so she may walk into her son’s home with an expression that says, ‘It’s easy for you now, he is all grown up and well trained!’ I think that’s quite all right. I am blessed with a mother-in-law who loves me in her own way and I would never compare it with the love she has for her daughters. They have spent their entire life with her. I just walked in a few years ago.
After a certain age, even daughters move out of their homes. It gets a little difficult to live under the same roof, be it daughters or daughters-in-law—given a choice, that is. My mother-in-law realized that we come from totally different backgrounds and she worked around it. I am lucky. A small example is how I am never forced to wear something just because she has bought it for me. I am told to pick what I want, which is so much better than being gifted saris that lie in the wardrobe for years.
When it comes to children too, she encourages me to bring them up exactly as I want to. There is no criticism when it comes to meal choices or the remedies and medication I give them when they are sick, although she herself is paranoid about her health. A headache will have her rushing for a scan; a stomach ache will have her imagining the worst. When it comes to illnesses, she can never think small. Headaches are tumours, a slight fever is the dreaded malaria. It was funny until I realized the reason behind it. She has had people being dependent on her for so long, it has made her anxious about any small symptom that might put her out of commission for a few days. It’s her biggest fear. She is petrified of falling ill and being unable to take care of those around her.
As the years pass, our conversations are getting longer and our calls more frequent. We understand each other better, though we haven’t done the usual bonding over shopping or cooking. I have to remedy the cooking part because she is an amazing cook and I should learn from her. Her cooking is Dhanush’s benchmark when it comes to good food. It is impossible to make him like anyone else’s cooking as much, and I have given up the fantasy of finding a cook who can make a meal that tastes like his mother’s.
I score the most brownie points from my mother-in-law for my religiosity. I regularly perform pujas at home and she particularly likes my Navaratri pujas. She and my mother come from different communities and though the festivals are the same, the rituals are entirely different. I learned the rituals from my mother and the differences are of great interest to my mother-in-law. She often proudly tells people about this facet of mine.
All four of her children are well settled and living their lives with their own families. It makes her a little lonely, since her entire life revolved around them till recently, yet she accepts it with a smile. She has broken every stereotypical notion I had about mothers-in-law and someday in the future, when I am in her position, I hope my sons’ wives feel the same about me.
More a Son
A million poets have sought to describe the nature of love and friendship. Novels, stories and plays delve into the complex relationship between mothers and daughters, fathers and daughters, sisters, brothers and everything in between. But strangely, there is very little that comes to mind about fathers-in-law and sons-in-law.
Appa lost his mother when he was seven. He was literally raised by his eldest brother and his wife, who became the mother figure as soon as she married into their family. She raised him alongside her own children and they brought him up like their own son, but I am sure losing his mother at seven left some scars. I have already talked about women looking for their father’s qualities in their husbands. I feel (I may be wrong) that one of the factors that attracted Appa to Amma was her nurturing nature. And, in turn, he nurtured her love for her family. From whatever I have heard and seen, I can proudly say that my father was more like a son to her parents than a son-in-law.
My maternal grandparents were very active people. My grandfather worked a regular nine-to-five job till late into his sixties and they drove themselves around quite happily. They had a simple life filled with friends and family. My grandfather would wake up at 5.30 in the morning and go for a walk, come back and read the newspaper from front to back. The only bad habit he had was smoking and his heavy addiction caused a heart attack. He lost a lot of his confidence then and stopped working.
I grew up with them in Bangalore and with me, he insisted on certain things. One was learning the English language the correct way. He was the son of a professor of English and had himself passed out of St. Joseph’s College, Trichy. He made me read every English hoarding we passed on the road and the newspaper every morning before heading to school. (A very old-fashioned method of learning, I hated it then, but I realize how helpful it has been and now make my son do it every morning. He hates it too!)
Grandfather would help with my homework and I can still recall his beautiful cursive handwriting. It got bigger and bigger with age as his eyesight failed, but still remained stunningly precise. Now I see that beauty reproduced only in computer fonts and rarely by hand. He would also make me write essays when I visited and would do the same himself, and I still cherish some of his writing. Vegetarians all their lives, my grandparents insisted on being ‘early to bed and early to rise’ and had a zeal for life that was infectious. I have to thank them for instilling it in me too.
After a heart surgery that left my grandfather feeling drained, there was a further bad card that fate dealt us. My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer. They moved to Madras to be closer to their children.
My grandmother passed away in her fifty-ninth year. Amma asked Appa if her father could stay with us, and Appa assented immediately. There was no hesitation. It would have been the done thing, especially in those days, for my grandfather to live with his son, but very naturally and with no uncertainty he came to his daughter’s home. In a society that considers girls as lesser than boys, partly on the premise that sons would take care of their parents when they got older, Appa showed that it can be the other way round too.
I remember an episode from the nineties, when I was in school. We had planned a holiday to USA and were to leave in a couple of days. It had been decided that my grandfather would stay back home due to concerns about his health. A day before we were to leave, though, Appa walked into the room where my sister and grandfather were playing Scrabble. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to my grandfather. It contained his passport and tickets for him to join us for the holidays. I remember the expression on my grandfather’s face. It was beautiful. All Appa did was to pat my grandfather on the shoulder and say, ‘Pack your bags, we are going to America.’
It was a memorable trip. We visited Disneyland and Universal Studios. At most of the rides there were notices that prohibited heart patients from boarding, among other warnings. Amma would not get on the tamest rides, but Appa and my grandfather (much to my mother’s concern) would grin and get on the rides like ten-year-olds. Appa would assure Amma, ‘I am there, and he is enjoying himself. Your father will not get hurt. This is good for him.’ We managed to drag my mother on to one ride just once, and I remember she chanted and screamed almost every god’s name in the Indian pantheon before it ended. We laughed ourselves silly. And Appa was right; it did my grandfather a whole lot of good.
Around the year 2000, my grandfather’s age started catching up with him. He was losi
ng his memory and his mobility. It was around the same time that Dhanush and I had started talking about a future together. I knew in my heart that he was the one I was going to marry, and I wanted my grandfather to be around for it. Would my future husband understand that? I told him about it and the universe showed me once again that my choice was right. He agreed, and that was the main reason we had such a quick wedding. It turned out to be the right decision. Grandfather blessed us and even recognized that the man before him was his grandson-in-law. And only a year later, he was gone. Appa lost a father figure that year and gained a son.
I am biased about my life partner, and there are a zillion incidents I could document about him, but this one is etched in my heart forever. One of the most difficult times in my life was when Appa fell sick. I was at the hospital the entire time and zoned out every other facet of my life. It was all about his treatment, his recovery and his comfort. I am sure anybody who has had a sick parent can relate to this. Husband and children took a back seat. I was so high-strung that people avoided me. When we had to travel to Singapore for further treatment, my sister and I took turns at the hospital. It was not our home country and the simple things we took for granted in Chennai took time and effort here, particularly at the hospital. Amma also was not well and was too distraught to be at Appa’s bedside.
We were there for three months, living out of suitcases. The hospital took up all our time. I just could not be a daughter and a mother at the same time. All my mind space was taken. My husband is a self-made man, his work ethic is famous, and by then he was doing really well, due to his hard work and god’s grace. (He never used my father’s connections or my pedigree to get ahead. In fact, he once mentioned in an interview that it undermined his hard work, when people assumed his success was due to his family and his in-laws.) That year he was doing three movies, which entailed crazy timings, hundreds of people dependent on his schedule, not to mention large sums of money at stake. It was a big deal for a young actor, but I could not even think beyond the hospital walls. I dumped the kids with him. He had come to Singapore to drop us off and make sure everything was arranged right, but I wouldn’t let him go back to India to shoot. I needed someone to stay some nights at the hospital. My sister and I just couldn’t handle it by ourselves. Amma would stay with the kids.
Being from a film family, I could almost see the flashback in my head. My Amma approaching Appa about her father; me approaching my husband about mine. A split screen appears. History repeats itself. And like most Indian movies, mine had a happy ending too (despite some heartache for the producers). Dhanush stayed.
It was not just the extra hands in a foreign country that helped. The emotional support was tremendous. We could, as a family, concentrate on getting Appa better. My husband became a true son to Appa in those three months, staying up with him so that I could sleep, keeping him company, and his spirits up.
And don’t worry about the producers. He compensated them amply for their patience and I am happy to say that all three films were hits at the box office and all was well in the end, including Appa’s health!
The Sacred Thread
Black, red, yellow and even green. On the left foot if you are a girl, right if you are a guy. Wrist, neck, waist, arms, no part of the body is spared.
Some habits are integral to our childhood, even though we have no idea why. There were always a few threads from a variety of temples, dargahs and other places of worship that adorned my ankles and wrists. A friend or relative would make the trip and return with some prasad and a thread, which would end up tied around our wrists or ankles. Some were for health, others to ward off the evil eye or for prosperity, and some to prevent nightmares. I have tried to ask a number of people about their significance, but was never satisfied with the answers. (Yes, I have Googled them too!)
Some of the explanations were downright ridiculous. One old aunt said that a black thread tied around a young girl’s ankle helped keep her fertile. Why a young, unmarried girl needed to be fertile was a question that occurred to me only after she passed away. A family priest was obsessed with these threads, and we got to hear many tall tales that explained the history of each thread that he collected from temples across India. Every one of them was holy according to him and some had lockets with the images of gods attached to them. He came with these and went away after accepting a dhoti or some money for his efforts. If he had his way, every piece of thread that was manufactured would be blessed. He also believed that there was a particular time for bathing, for eating, for sleeping etc., that he followed, all according to some ancient superstitions.
Such attitudes are not limited to India. I remember a story that a friend once told me about a man from Philippines who was given a sacred thread to tie around his neck by a holy man. The man’s mother died a few days after that and he believed that the thread had caused all the bad karma he had gathered to transfer to his mother, who then proceeded to die, leaving him cleansed. I was shocked at the interpretation and even more shocked to hear that the man continued to wear the thread, thinking it was highly effective.
I am a scaredy cat, I must confess, when it comes to sleeping alone and in the dark, and these threads often gave me a sense of security when I was younger, so I never entirely discounted them. I had a red thread around my wrist, which was supposed to help ward off evil spirits. I wore it in my teens, and then one day decided it was just a crutch and wanted to do away with it. It took me a year to get over my psychological dependence on that thread, but eventually I realized that I could sleep peacefully without it too. And just like that, it went back to being a little red thread from a powerful talisman that I thought I was dependent on. The thread works on a person’s mind, making them feel a little braver, a little more confident. The danger begins when you start attributing all your success to it.
Confession time—I still have a black thread tied around my left ankle, which is supposed to ward off the evil eye. Not that I believe in it, but the nostalgia and comfort in retaining something from my childhood make me continue the tradition. Appa also has one around his right ankle, and when I asked him about it, he shrugged and said that he’d had one since he could remember and he had never questioned it. I could see a reflection of my own sense of continuity in that answer. When someone ties a thread for you, it’s not just plain old superstition. It’s a testament of love: I love you and care for you, but I know I cannot protect you from every bad thing, real or imagined, so I would like to keep this token somewhere on you, to give you and myself comfort.
Certainly, that is what I mean when I continue with the custom. Both my sons wear a black thread around their ankles, which I hope reminds them of our love for them. Someday they are bound to question the practice and decide for themselves whether they want to wear it or not—and I am fine with that.
Weighty Matters
What goes around comes around. For those of you who have children, you know the cycle of recurring moments that involve you, your children and your parents.
If Appa is simple in his eating habits, Amma is extravagant. She loves feeding people. I loved eating and she loved feeding me when I was a kid. Almost everything was drenched in butter and ghee, and I had not even heard of carbs. Sweets and savouries were made at home without skimping on any ingredient, however fattening. We ate mostly home-cooked food and even when we ate out, pizzas, burgers, sugar-heavy drinks and refined zero-nutrient snacks were not on the menu, for they were yet to find their way to Madras. I always ate heartily and was active; Amma was happy. I wasn’t obese, but I was bigger than most children my age.
I can’t be as easy-going with my kids as she was with hers. Junk food is everywhere and the temptations are greater. But all my best intentions go down the drain when I stay with Amma, who still insists on filling us up with the richest food at every opportunity. My usual break at home consists of eating, chatting with Appa and sleeping. Amma takes care of the boys, relishing the time spent with them. One such evening, she had p
repared fluffy golden puris accompanied by yummy chana, garnished with freshly cut onions. Appa, the boys and I were eating while she served us. My older son sat on a chair next to us at the table while the younger one was perched on the table as he was still too small to reach it from a chair. Now Yatra loves fried things, like most kids, and these ‘straight from a vat of oil’ puris were heaven for him. As he was about to reach for his fourth one, I asked him to stop. The fried puris and accompanying spicy gravy were not good for him to indulge in so late in the evening. I told him to end his meal with something light—a glass of milk or a few mouthfuls of rice and curd. He was obviously disappointed and tried his best heart-melting gaze on me, but I was adamant.
Appa is not so strong, especially when it comes to his grandchildren. He immediately placed another puri on the child’s plate and said, ‘Yatra, take one more … I’ll ask your mother’s permission for it … She won’t say no.’ Yatra looked at me for confirmation. I knew that if I said no, I would look like the tyrant mommy who said no to food that he thought was yummy (didn’t plan for that to rhyme!). So, unhappily, I nodded at him and stared daggers at Appa. Once the kids had left, Appa in his usual calm manner tried to convince me that children should never be stopped from eating. There is a saying in Tamil that a young stomach can digest even a stone. But I was not ready to give up and as the conversation progressed, I realized my mother was standing quietly, listening to us with a smile on her face. Usually, when it came to anything to do with food, she would jump in and contribute her own philosophy, which can be best described as ‘feed till they are full and then some more!’
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