What My Grandmother Never Said!

She sat there for hours in our living room, in the same position, without speaking a word. I was a teenage boy in the 1990s—her grandson. I knew she was my father’s mother, but I also knew she was not used to the apartment culture in the city.

She wasn’t a woman in the sense of how we see women today—independent, outspoken, wearing jeans, crop tops, and carrying confidence in their stride. My grandmother was different. Silent. Reserved. Rooted in a world I could barely imagine. I often wondered what went on in her mind as she sat quietly for so long.

“What are you thinking of, Aaji?” I once asked her, my curiosity getting the better of me. Her calmness always carried a shadow of worry.

“The whoosh whoosh of the washing machine… it’s so uncomfortable,” she replied.

She was born in the pre-independence era in a village named Aundhi in the Solapur district of Maharashtra. Married off too early—most likely a child marriage—she faced early pregnancies and the struggles of raising a large family. She was the mother of three sons and five daughters, one of whom passed away in childhood. The second son was my father.

In those days, women’s liberation was unheard of. Her world was confined to the four walls of the ancestral house—the Shinde Wada. After her marriage, she lived in one of its rooms, spending most of her time cooking with firewood. Years of exposure to smoke eventually stole her eyesight. That’s perhaps why she sat for hours in one place, barely moving.

“Tell me some stories from your childhood, Aaji,” I would often plead, eager to know more about her. Sometimes, I would lay my head on her thighs, hoping she would caress my hair like other grandmothers did. But she never did. She grew uncomfortable whenever I tried.

“What stories should I tell? I was married to your grandfather when I was a child. He never loved me,” she said once, drifting into her painful memories.

After a pause, she continued, “Your grandfather kicked me in my stomach. He was after another woman. I had no one to complain.”

A tear rolled down her nearly blind eye.

When she did open up, she spoke for hours. But our worlds were different. She knew about farms, cattle, village recipes, home remedies, grains, the rains, and the seasons. I knew about refrigerators, mixers, sofas, and ceiling fans—the things that filled our apartment. This wasn’t her world.

As a child, I often saw her mistreated—manhandled by her husband, dominated by her daughters-in-law, ignored by her sons, and not understood by her grandchildren.

To me, she was just another grandparent. One who didn’t love me much. At least, that’s what I thought then.

But sometimes, she would quietly hand me a 25 paise coin from her little cloth bag. That bag was her treasure chest—it held her secrets, small notes, coins, and little personal things. For me, that coin meant an ice candy, and in those moments, it felt like love. Perhaps she just didn’t know how to express it.

She passed away in 2014 while I was in the United States. I couldn’t attend her last rites. Even today, when I think of her, I remember that 25 paise coin she used to give me. It was the only testimony of her silent love.

Yes, I expected her to love me the way other grandmothers loved their grandchildren. But maybe that was unfair. After all, how could someone give love when they never received it in their own lifetime?