Wednesday 17 April 2019

Write...Edit...Publish...+ IWSG: Jewel Box. April 2019


If you are looking for my A-Z post that’s here.  I am keeping my A-Z and WEP+IWSG posts separate.


Last month, in a response to my theme reveal for that Challenge, a commenter wrote - sounds like a great way to honour your grandmother with your theme idea for April. And the idea for this post grew from there.  


As with my January post, I am going with a photo-essay, something I hadn’t tried till this year for these challenges.  I am over wordcount here - the original was more than 3000, I just couldn't pare it down any further. My apologies.




Diptych in Progress


Three months lapsed before we came back to the red-oxide floored, two-storied house in Dover Lane. It was an ordinary homecoming, the adults were in control of themselves, everyone was calm, dry-eyed. I, a teenager, did not really know how to mourn.


My grandmother, Thakuma, had passed away in June that year. She had been a gentle, soft-spoken woman. The house did not feel any quieter because of the absence. I went to the kitchen and peered in.  Empty. On a shelf were some jars of pickles. 


Later, at a meal, we were served from one of those jars and my aunt, her youngest daughter, mentioned that they had been made the previous season by Thakuma. My jaw clenched at the sweettartness of the fruit. My guts clenched  at the thought that a perishable could outlast the woman who had made it.


~~~


I experienced the events as a diptych – one side of it was in Nigeria where my father worked at the time, the other side was a piecing-together from letters received, conversations that happened at the time which I overheard, absorbed unconsciously but indelibly, like the pickle one.  But also conversations that happened years later. In a way, that side of the diptych is a work in progress, a piece filled in here, a patch coloured in there as life goes on. I heard my grandfather’s anecdotes about Thakuma when I was in my twenties, ten years after her death. I have heard about her from my father. And others. Perhaps all of memory is really a diptych in progress.


Sometime around early June that year, my parents got the news – my paternal grandmother was critically ill. My father should make his way back as soon as possible. However, at the time the passports were with the Indian High Commission in Lagos for renewal, a thousand miles away. My father chafed and worried, but there wasn’t anything to be done.


Thakuma died on the 21st. Communications were slower, the news got to my father’s workplace 8 days later. Of the 11 days of sackcloth-and-ashes type mourning that Hindu Brahmins are required to follow, the major part was over. My parents observed the remaining part, I must have too, though I have no specific memory of it.


What I do remember of that day is the sound of the car turning into the driveway in the early afternoon, way too early for my father. When I’d got up and gone to investigate, I found my mother alone. ‘Go to your father’ she said in an odd but compelling sort of voice. He had retreated to the farthest end of the house. I watched him weeping silently, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to help, wildly panicked. I had never seen him weep, never seen any adult male weep before. Tears were res non grata when I was growing up.


~~~


In due course, my aunt handed over to my mother a couple of pieces of Thakuma’s jewellery – she had left them for me. That too I found vaguely astounding, how does a dying person find the headspace for these decisions?


Thakuma (elderly lady in white, L, standing) and 
I (topless kid, sitting) in same frame. There aren't  
too many photos of her.  Group taken at D Lane 
after a family wedding.
One of the pieces was a brooch, the decorative side made up of an enamelled photograph of my grandfather as a young man. The other was a ‘lace-pin,’ basically two gold-bow brooches attached to each other with a length of chain. I had never seen anything like it before. I was told lace-pins were used to pin ladies’ veils to their hair so that the fabric  stayed in place.


Other things seeped into my consciousness from somewhere – that Thakuma had left her bangles to my elder aunt. But they had no 'gold value,' since they were ‘bronze,’ whatever that meant. Thakuma had sold off her real gold bangles ages back. She had sold off most of her jewellery after the family moved to Dover Lane. Why, Aunt? To put food on the table, dear. The money had dried up, there was no income.


One of my earliest memories of Thakuma is of a trip she took me on - to a jeweller’s called A. Sircar. I was around 5. A cousin had just been born in Dover Lane, and as is the custom, Thakuma had ‘seen the face’ of the little baby boy and blessed him with an accompanying gift of gold.


How come you gave him a ring and you never gave me any, Thakuma?


She did not remonstrate or brush me off, she never mentioned even that she had given a pair of mini gold bangles as my ‘seeing-the-face’ gift. Instead she put me in a rickshaw and took me to A. Sircar’s and ordered me a ring. I only understood the true value of that baby jewellery after the conversation about the ‘bronze’ bangles, appreciated the squeeze she must have put herself through to soothe a grandchild’s peeve.


The story of the brooch I heard from my grandfather many years later. He told me that brooch was cutting edge for its time, it was made with a German enamel photography technology that had just come to India. He had it specially made for my grandmother. And I realised that she had sold off all her other jewellery but hung on to this romantic gift till the very end.


~~~


These tangible things I have of hers - this jewellery box my aunt gave me many years after Thakuma’s death. I had enquired vaguely about Thakuma’s betel casket. She used to chew betel and I have many memories of her rolling betel leaves.


I was told that the betel casket hadn’t really belonged to Thakuma - had other claimants. I must have looked crestfallen, because my aunt passed this little box to me sometime later. I lately asked my aunt if she knew its provenance, she just said it must have come from Thakuma’s parental home.  My father, who’s considerably older than my aunt, was even vaguer – it’s always been around, I’ve seen it from childhood. Both my aunt and my grandmother used it as a jewellery box. 


My aunt also passed  my grandmother’s vermilion pot to me after I got married. It’s a small, plain silver one with her name on it. Her full name was Lahari Leela - the play of waves. A beautiful name. She struggled all her life, with her initial years of infertility and its stigma, with the uprooting of the Partition, with the shocking, untimely death of her son-in-law, with money problems. But like that ring she gave me, she squeezed a solution out somehow, with infinite patience and gentle fortitude, no drama. I don’t know her date of birth. I asked my father and my aunt  -  no-one does. Guessing she was born in 1906, and married in 1918 when she was twelve. The vermilion pot and the box are now over a hundred years old. The brooch, also close.


The gold value of what Thakuma left me is not worth counting. The real value is incalculable.


WC - 1169
FCA



Read the other entries below:


52 comments:

  1. Oh Nila, such a powerful, poignant essay.
    And what precious memories to build a jigsaw from as other pieces are revealed.

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  2. 'The gold value of what Thakuma left me is not worth counting. The real value is incalculable.'
    The last lines say it all, Nila. Poignant. Moving. Powerful. Loved the weaving of words and photos. I think this needs to be a memoir one day when you find the time! These are precious memories indeed.

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    1. I value the memories as this grandmother was the first grandparent who passed...I spent less than three years living under her roof. We didn't have much time together.

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  3. I loved reading this essay! So many memories, so much history. The stories and the photos that accompanied them made for a powerful piece. Thank you so much for sharing it!

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    1. I do wish I had more photos, but those days photos got taken only on some formal occasion or other.. and there was no camera in D Lane of course.

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  4. Incalculable indeed! What beautiful memories of a woman who lived life well and with love. Treasure those memories, those stories, and those keepsakes!

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    1. Indeed she did live her life with great strength and great love. Thank you.

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  5. Your essay made me think of my grandmother. Keepsakes and memories are priceless. I wear my grandmother's wedding ring on a finger. It's worth "nothing" but oh, it's beautiful.
    Alas, some brooches she gave me were stolen over 20 years ago when my jewelry box was taken - heartbreaking.
    So, I love that b&w family photo and your essay. You capture such a heart treasure so well. Thank you.

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    1. It's the family history and emotions that reside in it that make it beautiful. That resonates completely! How awful to lose the keepsakes of a beloved grandmother, heartbreaking indeed - so sorry to hear of it.

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  6. The memories are priceless, as ads tell us, but it's the person who gives that memory depth. I liked this, Nila. It's like the glass dog my brother loved, which was given to me at my request when he passed. Well done.

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    1. Thank you. It was difficult to trim it down to an acceptable wordcount... :) I know what you mean about the glass dog it's like by having it around you have a bit of the person who possessed it as well...

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  7. What a wonderful tribute to your grandmother's memory. As we ourselves age, we realize how little we know of our grandparents' generation. When they wanted to talk, we were young, absorbed with ourselves, and didn't really listen. Now, we do want to know, but they are already gone, so every snippet of memory is precious.

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    1. As I said above, I didn't have much time with her, but I'm grateful that I knew my grandfather both as a child and an adult and spent quite a lot of time with him...

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  8. This is very nicely written and the pictures fit with it so well.

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  9. Hi Nila - wonderful weaving of memories and remembrances together ... including the cultural family connections - loved the crossing of the continents - the mourning time lost ... and your dear father desperate in his grief.

    As Olga mentions ... so many questions we want answered and now they've gone ... but I do hope you'll put these into a Memoir or book for the family - a great jewel box story ... I loved reading about the crafts of the era.

    Thanks for a delightful read - cheers Hilary

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    1. The crossings of continents required a different mindset those days - no skype, no cell phones, only handwritten letters and telexes in emergencies :) a different world entirely

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  10. This is very deep and moving. Thank you for sharing this family history.

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  11. So true! The real value of what she left you, you are not able to calculate.
    They are priceless memories, moral standards and beliefs that have given you footing and halt in a chaotic world. I truly enjoyed reading this.
    Shalom aleichem,
    Pat G

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    1. The value of our heritage, whether collective or individual, mostly lies in trivial, barely noticeable things ... it's ageing and memory that creates the value.

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  12. i'm glad you have that photo of the two of you together. women don't wear broaches very much in the west nowadays. sometimes i'd like to restart the tradition so i could wear my grandma's broach. glad you have great memories and also sentimental keepsakes.

    Joy at The Joyous Living

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    1. They are a really pretty accessory though. It's a pity they aren't worn more widely...I have worn my grandma's brooch on formal occasions, it's a conversation piece, always had people asking me about it whenever I wore it. I've never seen anyone else in India with anything similar.

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  13. This was so interesting and moving. I think Lahari Leela is the most beautiful name I've ever heard! I found your essay really poignant and you captured grief through the eyes of a child extremely well. Thank you for sharing.

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    1. I think it's a beautiful name too, the ladies of my grandmother's generation all had long, alliterated and/or very melodious sounding names.

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  14. The real value of those memories, those moments. Wonderful writing!

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  15. Well done. I find it difficult to relate to, but it's beautifully written.

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    1. It would be very helpful for me if you elaborated where the relatability barrier is - the names? the objects? the geographical locations? at what point am I losing the reader. Thank you.

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  16. You have so many insightful moments in this piece and they all touch on the experience of loss brilliantly. The teen who didn't know how to mourn. The pickles that survived the maker. The long-lasting lesson of the ring. The shock of seeing the father in tears. Each one gives us a glimpse of what it's like to lose a loved one and how that changes our world forever.

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    1. It does change our worlds forever, absolutely. As a teenager one doesn't really comprehend that 'forever' aspect. It takes much growing up to realise it.

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  17. A lovely piece. I'm sure your grandmother would be proud of this.

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    1. Thank you. The standards of accomplishment for a woman in her times would be quite different from ours, I suspect.

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  18. Hi Nila
    Losing a grandparent is hard. You have some precious memories and hand-me-downs. I enjoyed hearing about your grandmother. Well written.
    Nancy

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    1. Hi Nancy, glad you enjoyed it. Precious memories indeed.

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  19. Thank you so much for sharing such a personal and emotional piece. Your words and pictures serve well to capture that sense of family, loss, and love we all as humans can relate to. That jewelry box is stunning; so glad it fit so well into this month's theme. Lovely.

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  20. This is such a powerful and emotional piece, Nila.
    It's a moving tribute to honour the value of one's heritage... a snippet which belongs in a memoir.
    Thank you for sharing.

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    1. Thanks for reading Michelle and the feedback.

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  21. That’s beautiful. I think you captured the feeling of the teen with too little life experience to fully understand grief. And I love the pictures of the things that tie you to her. Sadly, I lost the jewelry I inherited from my grandmother—her engagement ring and a couple of costume-jewelry pins—when some low-life broke into our house. They had almost no monetary value (even the ring, which was only barely gold and had a diamond you could hardly see), but infinite value to me. Hang onto those treasures, and the memories they spark!

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    1. Oh that is so sad your grandmother's jewellery was stolen, that must have been heartbreaking.

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  22. So beautiful ... especially the last lines. I barely made this month's deadline! https://rolandyeomans.blogspot.com/2019/04/weprif.html

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    1. Thanks for visiting and the link. Will be over directly.

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  23. Moving as this is real like the memories - more valuable than any jewel or precious metal. Mementos from special people are priceless.

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    1. Couldn't agree more. Some things just can't be measured.

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  24. Wow! So much research must have gone into this post. I bet it was difficult to write. Really amazing. Glad you shared it.

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    1. Thanks for being here. Not much research involved. More memory intensive than research intensive really.

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  25. Odd to think of someone grieving for the first time as a teen. Glad you wrote this. Very moving and deeply personal.

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    1. As a teen one doesn't really know the meaning of grief. It's more panic and insecurity being faced with the mortality of a family member, for the first time usually, though for me this wasn't the first death in the family. Thanks for your feedback.

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  26. How thoughtful of your grandmother to have left those invaluable legacies... among them enameled photograph of your grandfather as a young man, the ‘lace-pin’, jewel box, vermilion pot ....
    Very well-written, moving piece, Nilanjana.

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    1. Thank you for reading Pradeep, especially in the middle of the A-Z. Much appreciated.

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