My Grandmother
I grew up with my grandmother in a terraced house in Cathays whilst my mother did her degree in English Literature and Cultural Criticism.
I'd stay with my mother on weekends, she was working two jobs and studying.
My grandmother cannot speak English and she cannot read. This didn't matter so much as a child, I was fluent in her native language of Punjabi which I've lost due to lack of use, but I still feel close to her.
A highly religious woman, pious as she prays five times a day, some parts of living in Pakistan never lost her.
She was put into an arranged marriage with my grandfather that in some ways proved disastrous. At first he didn't treat her well, not at all; alcoholism and beating, but she bore him five children; four boys and a daughter.
A Tragedy
The second youngest of her sons, Shakoor, meaning 'the most thankful', tragically died from pneumonia. This was before the Race Relations Acts and her inability to fluently speak the language of her new home, Britain, she couldn't tell anybody what was wrong with him. She couldn't ring the ambulance and be able to be transferred to someone who spoke Punjabi. It was nobody's fault, his death, but it marked her in a way that she never really recovered. A death is terrible; one of a child is even worse.
Tragedies are common in life, so are miracles, but when the former affects people nothing can be said except profound feelings of condolences and apologies. She's never spoken about it with me; he's buried in the Muslim cemetery east of Cardiff in Ely near Culverhouse Cross. I can’t imagine the grief of losing a young child. It’s times like that I wish that the Greek idea of Deux Ex Machina existed; during Greek plays God would be transported onto stage, a human acting as God, to bring some sort of explanation to a situation. Wouldn’t that be handy?
Grandmothers are like mothers, but nicer. They don't have to enforce authority in such a strong way a mother has, but in some ways they are God’s representatives on earth. Not that they’re all-knowing, but God can’t be everywhere all at once, so we have Grandmother’s to take their place and tut their disdain if we do anything wrong. It’s one of those deals where someone being disappointed in you is so much worse than somebody being angry at you.
We're All Mixed Up
They say that the US is a nation of immigrants, but isn’t the UK a nation of immigrants to some extent? Year after year of invasions in our earlier years, the Romans and the Vikings diluting our gene pool of predominantly Celtic genetics to one of a mix.
Those who say they are truly British aren’t, there was a television show whereby they tested the genetics of people who claimed they were; it proved that all of them had a non-British bloodline somewhere or another.
My great-grandparents on my mother’s side, the archetypal stereotype of Britain, a nice garden, plenty of tea at all time, a grandfather clock and shopping at Marks and Spencer had their family tree traced; my great grandfather’s parents were from the West Country and my great grandmother was descended from liberated Western Indian slaves from the Caribbean who’d com to Britain in hope of a different life. None of us are 100% anything, really. Race doesn’t matter.
I think that no matter what, our grandparents make an impression and influence on us that we cannot ignore. After reading a Formspring reply of a friend who spoke about his Russian great grandmother and the sentiments he felt, I felt moved. We’re all from different places and we’re all in it together.
The bigoted ways of those before us on both sides of the Atlantic have been replaced by modern and progressive views with political movements like the Civil Rights Movement to represent the new ways of people.
Keeping Traditions
Since my grandmother left Pakistan, everything she has done since has been woven with that thread: her ways will never be changed, there’s something warming about that. My grandmother is the sort of old Asian lady you see buying exotic groceries on Albany Road, dressed with a duputa (a traditional scarf that acts like a hijab) around her head. Whenever I see someone dressed like her, it warms me inside. I must address her with the Punjabi word for grandmother, dadima: she won't respond to grandmother as she doesn't want us, the grandkids, to forget our roots. She speaks in broken English about monsoons and a life where she saw peacocks on a regular basis.
Women are the unspoken heroes of our everyday lives. They bring up children and often work as well, running a household and having a life of their own. I read a statistic that women do most of the farm work on Earth, giving us our essential nutrients.
Given, I should have written this around Mother’s Day, but after reading about my friend’s grandmother it led me to write about my own. What’s your grandmother like?
Info on family and relationships
Info on marriage, including arranged and forced marriages
IMAGE: In A NY State Of Mind
1 Comment – Postiwch sylw
Biscuits
Rhoddwyd sylw 24 mis yn ôl - 20th May 2010 - 17:06pm
I loved your article (: I think I have become fond of your grandmother even though I have never met her.
My family are from India and I know what you mean when you talk about feeling warm when you see dupatas and hear of the monsoon. When my mum and I go to an Indian function, we always wear salwars and sometimes get odd looks from people in the street. But I don't care, I'm proud of my heritage and enjoy showing that.