In Search of Nana’s Love!

As a child, I was very fond of my Nana. Usually, grandchildren have fond memories of their grandfathers — especially their maternal ones. A few of my summer holidays were spent at Mahud Budruk, a village near Pandharpur in Maharashtra. Those days, surrounded by my two maternal uncles, four aunts, and the vast mango farms, were some of the most memorable days of my childhood.

I remember plucking drumsticks every time Aaji (my maternal grandmother) asked me to fetch some vegetables for cooking. Drumsticks were my favorite, and it was always fun knocking them down from the trees with a long stick. The mango tree standing tall above the well was my absolute favorite. Along with my brother and other cousins, I would climb to the highest branch, reaching for the ripest mangoes.

“Neeraj, stop plucking those mangoes. I need to sell them in the market,” Nana would shout whenever he caught me collecting the best ones. Hearing his voice, I would quietly climb down, clutching whatever I had managed to grab.

When I last met Nana - May 2023

The well in the farm also had several fish that Nana reared. I remember how villagers often visited him to buy those fish. Once, when I tried to catch one with my hands, he scolded me sharply. Aaji, on the other hand, was a sweetheart. She always stood up for us grandchildren, objecting whenever anyone scolded us — including Nana. But, as was common in a male-dominated household, her voice often carried little weight against his.

I owe the roots of my numismatic hobby to Nana, who had an impressive collection of rare coins — many dating back to the 16th century. He carried them in a small pocket stitched inside his banian.

“Can you give them to me, Nana? I promise I’ll keep them safe in my collection,” I once pleaded, noticing that some of his coins were wearing smooth from years of rubbing against the fabric of his pocket.

Nana, ever determined, stayed silent. After much coaxing, he finally parted with a couple of coins — the ones that were damaged the most. One was a 1908 British India One Anna, and the other, a 1945 Paisa. He kept the rest of his precious collection with him until, one day, a thief stole them while Nana was bathing on the banks of the Chandrabhaga River at Pandharpur. I was deeply hurt when I heard the news — perhaps even more than he was.

As I grew older, I began to understand more about Nana and his ways. What once felt like him being distant or even mean started to make sense. In those days, grandparents often showed favoritism. Grandsons received special privileges over granddaughters, and the grandsons of sons were loved a little more than the grandsons of daughters. This wasn’t just Nana; it was a pattern deeply rooted in Indian traditions for generations.

Nana lived a long life, crossing the age of 95, before leaving this world in 2024 — leaving me longing for the grandfatherly love I had always hoped for.

I vividly remember his last visit to our house with Aaji a few years ago. As they were leaving, Aaji, as she always did, took out a hundred-rupee note from her little savings to give me. She paused, exchanged a quiet glance with Nana, and then handed me a fifty-rupee note instead. I accepted it with a smile — it felt less like money and more like a quiet blessing from her.