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My Grandparents

by Laila Brahmbhatt
(New York, USA)

I found it irritating to hear my mother whine about losing both of her parents at a young age.
I never fully understood her suffering.
As I kept hearing the same old story of her missing them, my conscience stopped me from speaking.
But when I grow older, I want my mother to tell me those same stories every day — how much she misses her parents and how vulnerable my grandparents were as young people.
I don’t want my grandmother’s ancient family recipe.
I want to taste the mangled smoke that rose when she lit the charcoal stove.
In the soggy fields, I see her in every grain, her hands covering the bamboo basket.
In the elderly woman shooing insects out of a paddy field.
In every insect that flutters by my grandmother’s earlobes and the garland of sweat in her blue eyes.
Every time I see an image of Ashok Kumar, I remember my grandfather —
a calm but stoic face.
He married twice, which was considered a vice,
to two different sisters, like two different flavored pickles.
I wish I had known them better,
to write more.
I want to end by wishing my mum would call
to talk about my grandparents.