Cadbury was her favorite. I used to buy one for her as soon as I landed at Biratnagar Airport;  exactly like she did for me when I was a child. The role now reversed. I never went home without meeting her. I would give her a kiss and she would say: Why kiss this old wrinkly cheek! And she would laugh.  

My Aama, as I used to call my granny, loved watching cartoons; she would watch them for hours with my little cousins and me, and laugh with us. 

Growing up in Biratnagar in the mid 90s had its own perks. It was a hotbed of political happenings, and our home was never boring. Born to a daughter of a colonel, everybody called her Ramri Maiya Hajur. She lost her husband early on, and raised their seven children alone. Some of her own shut their doors for her, but she never complained. 

The color of her skin, the poise of her entire being still so fresh and dewy, would always radiate confidence. I would show her old photos, and she always talked about the need to feel beautiful from inside. She was an epitome of beauty and grace, and more importantly, an example of selfless love she had for all her seven children, thirteen grandchildren, and a great grandchild. 

She spent most of her childhood at her home in New Road. She spent a lot of time in her house in Chobhar. Most of her summer was spent there. Whenever I pass by Chobhar, I imagine young Aama playing there. 

It was easy to make her smile, she would just watch us talk, and smile. She was 92, but her senses were agile. 

xxx

2019. It was time for my marriage, and I wanted to spend time with her, because we both knew that I would not be able to see her often. After a month of staying with Aama, I returned to Kathmandu, to prepare for my wedding. 

When I was a child, she looked after me, she was more than a mother to me. It aches to even think that she is now gone. I can’t stop thinking of her words: “We are born to die, for you to grow”.  I terribly miss her warm snuggles and all her bedtime stories. 

Ama’s traditional herbal remedies for cough and cold would do magic. She taught me Ayurvedic remedies for pains, and my love for Ayurveda only grew stronger. She also taught me Sanskrit mantra. She told us stories from Mahabharat and Ramayan. I can still recite 40-verse Hanuman Chalisa by heart. 

She was this thread that connected our family, and now only traces of her are left. 

She told me the story of how my mother was in labor pain and how I ran after the rickshaw and called it kicksha, in my broken baby language. “You wanted to go to the hospital with your mom, and I hugged you and brought you back home,” she would tell me the story years later. 

She taught me to walk. My mother told me that Epsha, my sister, and I took our first baby walk  at mamaghar and Aama was the happiest. 

xxx

One day, Aama and I decided to open one of her old boxes, and found a sari. This was the same sari that my grandfather had gifted Aama, a month after their wedding. He had bought her a French chiffon sari from India as a ‘surprise gift’. I now have that 60-year-old sari, its colors and designs more elegant than before. With the sari, I feel Aama’s presence within me. I hope to pass on the sari to my children someday.  

My husband and I went to mamaghar to receive tika from Aama last Dashain. She saw my husband for the first time. She had asked me a thousand questions about the guy I was getting married to. “You married the right one,” she smiled as she put a tika and blessed my husband and me. 

xxx

Ama’s physical strength waned as she fell off her bed a few years ago, but she insisted on working in the garden. She never allowed physical difficulties to kill her morale. We would give her physical therapies everyday. Seeing her do all the physio made us happy. For us, it was like her watching our first baby walk. 

Aama always had this radiant smile on her face. We never saw her frown or worry about anything. She had mastered the art of losing and letting go. I think of Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art where she talks about the aching beauty of losing people and places: “I lost my mother’s watch. And look my last, or-next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master”.  

As I mourn her passing, my childhood memories of growing up with her comes flashing by. I wish I had said to her how blessed I was to have a granny like her. 

But, I know she has joined grandpa up there, and is protecting us. 

Adieu, Aama!

Twitter: @riya_basnet07

 
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