Fifty years a widow!

An edited re-post, remembering my grandmother on the anniversary of her death.
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She died 38 years ago.  She was 67 years old.

The cosmos handed her an extremely raw deal.  Misfortunes upon misfortunes.  

The eldest child in the typically large family of those days, she was the beloved sister to her siblings and practically the mother for the two youngest sisters.  A beautiful girl she was, her contemporaries often recalled, when she was married.  A girl--not a young woman--as was the custom for centuries until recently.

She was only fifteen when she had her first child, and barely seventeen when the second--my father--was born.

So, there she was all of seventeen, a mother of two boys of whom one was only forty days old, when her husband died.

He died far away from her village, in the big city of Madras where he had gone to participate in political meetings and make his contribution to India's independence movement that was gaining strength.  She never even got to see her husband's dead body.

She was now a seventeen-year old widow, with a two-year old son and a forty-day old infant.

The unexpected death of the son was traumatic to the husband's parents.  Within a year, the mother died.  And then the father also died.  

She was now about twenty, with two young boys, without the father-in-law and the mother-in-law.  A couple of years later, her mother also died and her father became senile.

Meanwhile, society compelled her to shave her hair, and wear the plain beige saris that marked women as widows.  That is the how even my father remembers her.  Father has no idea how his mother looked as a woman with hair and wearing regular saris and clad in jewels as young women would typically look.

And there were more mishaps, big and small.

As I recall grandmother and her life, I am all the more impressed that she was, by and large, an optimistic and fun-loving woman--despite all these setbacks.

It turned out that she literally had an enlarged heart, in addition to the metaphorical one.  Yes, a heart that was enlarged.  It started slowing down.  Back then, India didn't have any treatment for her enlarged heart.

One day, she seemed to be more than a tad short of breath and the oxygen at home was not helping her.  Mother and I rushed her to the hospital.

I was in the front with the driver and mother was in the back with grandmother.  We were not even halfway to the hospital when my mother said that grandmother had died.

That was in 1980.

The street in Pattamadai
where grandmother lived