Indian grandmas 101

Living with one grandmother and spending a good portion of time at the other one’s flat may sound pretty boring after life in New York City, but I think it's given me a crash course on the essential skills needed to survive in India: patience, diplomacy, a firm stance, and the ability to view a situation with amusement instead of frustration. Hanging out so much with my grandmas means that my appetite is constantly embroiled in a game of tug-of-war, with my stomach as the rope each grandmother pulls with promises of tantalizing meals. That rope is going to fray and break. As I told H., my stomach has started to resemble a pillow stuffed inside a too-small pillowcase- you know, those ones that are really hard and uncomfortable to sleep on.

I live with my Nani, my maternal grandmother, but spend a lot of time with my Dadi, my paternal grandma. Although both grandmothers are around the same age, Nani seems older. Since she has no sons, she lives in a bungalow with her brothers-in-law and their progeny and much of her day revolves around religious activities: puja, or a prayer ceremony in the morning, a trip to the temple mid-day, errands, lunch, a class on scriptures or religious songs in the evening, and then dinner at night. My Dadi, who lives with my dad’s younger brother and his family, is more ambulatory and social. She lunches with friends, goes to the market to buy vegetables, sees movies in the theater with her sisters, and attends Indian classical music concerts with her brothers.

Despite the differences in their lifestyles, both Nani and Dadi are Indian grandmas who express their affection by preparing meals and feeding their grandchildren. Since for years I’ve held “visitor” status in Bombay, preparing my favorite foods in the short weeks I was in town was a fairly stressful scene, both for the grandmothers and for my stomach. And, although I’m now here for good, not much has changed in the meal pitching tactics. Picture this:

Dadi, on the phone: “Hi Janki, what would you like for lunch today? I’m thinking of making a special Gujarati shaak (vegetable dish), ambe ka raas (mango pulp) and pathra (a Gujarati delicacy of spiced besan (chickpea flour) rolled in colocassia leaves and stir-fried with mustard, bay leaves and chilies). Or, would you like something else? We could have asparagus soup and mushroom risotto.”

Nani, one hour later: "Janki, will you be home for lunch today? I’ve made handvo and samosas, if you’re interested. I also have this very nice koprapak (coconut and milk dessert flavored with saffron and cardamom) I made for puja this morning. I know you don’t enjoy Indian sweets, but why don’t you just try a small piece? I really think you’ll like it."



Although I kept telling the ladies I didn’t want anything special for meals, they didn't listen and insisted on preparing elaborate spreads. Each time I accepted one grandmother’s offer for a meal, I risked hurting the other one’s feelings because if these meals were an expression of their love...then I was reciprocating that emotion by choosing one meal over another. The thought of hurting my grandmothers troubled me quite a bit until I realized that I needed to let go of these worries.

A part of living in Bombay is becoming accustomed to people making demands on my stomach and my time. Frequent interactions with family- grandmas, parents, in-laws, aunts, cousins- is an established part of life here, and so, to keep myself sane, when it comes to food, or grandmothers, or anything in Bombay, I'm learning to do as I please. If I try to eat every meal my grandmothers cook I'm soon going to be bursting out of my pillowcase, and if I'm using valuable stomach space to save other people's feelings, then I'm missing out on both cooking and eating my own food, two activities I treasure. So now I've learnt: I'll eat whatever five-course meal they make, but only on allotted days; otherwise, my stomach, and my time, is mine.