My dada was a quiet man. He would walk around our house in his pajama pants, his hands held behind his back, pacing and thinking. My grandparents would stay in our midwest Michigan house for months at a time, something the other kids at school or in our neighborhood thought was strange. The strong smell of their daily afternoon tea, of masala spices and cumin, of air that was from another country I had never been before, would come and fill each room.
My dada’s face would light up whenever he saw me. It could’ve been when he looked up from his crossword puzzle. It was probably as he was making his way around the garden. How many times did he gently take his hand in mine, tell me about his prayers to God about my life, give to me generously without me even knowing it? I cannot count them all.
She was stern; she was steel. I would run away when she chased me out of the hot kitchen, pinching my arms and scolding me. She would always cup my chin in her hands and smile afterward. We were two of a kind, even from the beginning.
My dadi was fire and ice. She would stroke my hair as I laid on her silk comforter and sing me songs as I watched her face. She would command my dada around the house, shake her head in disapproval at my torn jeans, and cheat at every card game we ever played. My dadi walked with an endearing shuffle that my mom adopted, that I vowed I would never have. I caught myself walking up the stairs a few years ago in that same Gohil posture and laughed out loud. I see myself in her features, her antics, her iron cloaked compassion. She is with me, still.
My favorite thing in the world was getting to sleep in grandma’s bed. She wore a vintage nightgown and would tell me stories of when she was little and the world was big and old and exciting. I never did sleep on those nights; I would count the ceiling tiles and stare at the long shadows on her bedroom wall, telling the stories back to myself and smelling the ivory soap on her skin. She always smelled clean, and like the buttery jammy toast that she would make each morning.
Grandma’s house in Wisconsin was magic itself: rooms with antique furniture from another time, vintage comics and toys, potted plants, and a shag carpet that I would make ‘carpet angels’ on. The floors would creak and groan as I ran through the hallway, someone always yelling at me to slow down. She would tie a bandana in my hair, pour my orange juice in floral glass cups, sit on the couch with me and watch ‘State Fair’ and ‘Meet Me in Saint Louis.’ She was capable, she was independent, and she loved me with a tenderness I have only known in her.
Each of these lives were lost within the same month’s time. All of my grandparents passing at once, as if I blinked or breathed in or did anything at all. The sound of their deaths echo around me from far away; it’s something I can’t fully hear yet. I know it only in the strained voices of my parents on the phone and in the silence between our words.
So I will wait to hear from all of them, as I know I will.
“Beta,” says my dada. “Alishu,” says my dadi. “Lishy,” says my grandma.
I love you, I want to say. I want to say it a million times.
This is described my parents quite well. Glad to see you are able to share your experience and memories with all of us. It is beautiful
Oh Lish. Such beautiful writing about something so very sad and poignant - especially as you will welcome your beloved little one into the world.