This is a piece about my grandma. She died on September 21, 2007. My grandma made an impact on my life because she encouraged me to try new things and we went through many adventures together.
It was September 18, two nights before my sixth birthday. The smell of fresh, ripe mangoes filled the air of Sreemangal. I lay on the soft bed. Patterns swirled on the headboard. There was a flower in the middle, with lines carved into the petals. I stared at the fan. Netting surrounded the bed, protecting us from mosquitoes. My arm itched on my shoulder. The moist air melted on my skin. Rain banged on the steel roof above me.
Nani came in the room. She wore an orange cotton saree and had a glass of milk in her hand. Her hand was shaking as she approached me. The glass of white milk was glowing in the dark. The diamonds on her bangles shone.
I gulped down the milk, holding my nose with my fingers. I hated milk as a child. My grandpa’s farm was filled with cows that had horns the size of my arm. Their horns would stab the air, scaring me. Huge globs of cow poop filled the cow house. Every time I saw milk, I would smell that stench: garbage mixed with soil. But if I refused to drink the milk, Nani would say, “Don’t you want to grow?”
She sang her old bedtime lullabies in Bangla, her voice soft and crackly like an old radio. As she paused, I would hear the crickets chirp. We drifted to sleep. Nani’s arm hung around me and felt warm and protective. The ceiling fan turned, but my hot skin still felt sticky. But that did not matter to anyone because we had each other’s company.
I woke up the next morning to the smell of fried eggs. I loved mornings in Bangladesh because they were busy. I would wake up to the smells of eggs, tea, kichuri, and parathas. I would always lie in bed for a long time, enjoying the smells.
As I walked down the long hallway to the kitchen, I noticed my jam plant. A few weeks ago we had eaten fruit from my grandpa’s farm. It was divided into sections for bananas, coconuts, mango, tea, jam fruit, and more. Hundreds of tea bushes on hills stood in green, curved rows. Women with barrels on their backs would pick up tea leaves.
Jam was sweet and purple. As I bit into it the purple juice filled my mouth and dripped all over my dress. I couldn’t believe that food could grow from a seed, but Nani encouraged me, saying, “Just try, we’ll see what happens.” So I planted it. And that morning before my birthday, the plant had sprouted. Because of Nani’s encouragement, I was able to accomplish something I had never done before.
As I walked to the cavernous dining room everyone had already finished their morning tea and biscuits. Uncle had already left for work, and Mom had left my fried eggs on the table. One of my pet peeves was uncovered food, and a fly was already making circles around my plate like a magnet. I lost my appetite.
Since my birthday was tomorrow, Mom and Aunt flipped through their phone books and started calling relatives.
“What kind of cake do you want?” Mom asked.
“I want Aunt to make the cake, the cake that she made for Tuha’s birthday was so pretty,” I replied.
Aunt would decorate the cake beautifully with different colored icing. There was no oven, so Aunt and Mom had to bake it on the stove. It would take five or six hours, so they started that day.
On the evening of my birthday, my favorite dishes filled the table. There were sandwiches cut in half with toothpicks from the shop around the corner. The cake that Aunt had prepared had pink and yellow flowers swirled around. Perfectly triangular samosas lay on a plate.
After we ate, we played a game of charades with my cousins, aunts, and uncles. All of a sudden we heard screams and everyone rushed over to the living room, Nani had started to throw up. It was weird seeing her in this condition because Nani was so active, walking one mile every morning. Uncle called the doctor to the house. All the offices were closed since it was eleven.
That night, Mom and I slept in Nani’s room. The blankets moved and the bed creaked as Nani fidgeted. She complained about the heat, so Mom turned on the fan. I shivered that night, and my legs tightened.
The next morning, Nani’s condition had worsened. Her dark eyes drooped. She was rushed to the hospital in Dhaka, a three-hour drive away. Uncle, Aunt, and Nani left before dawn. She wasn’t able to walk, so Uncle carried her to the car.
We prayed for Nani. Mom cooked since Aunt wasn’t here. A crash came from the kitchen, and I rushed in. A broken plate was scattered all over the floor. Mom frantically ran around the kitchen.
At noon, the Zuhr Adhan—the signal for prayer—boomed through the city. As soon as the Adhan finished the phone rang. Mom started crying. Nani had died.