Night at the Grandmother's

Summer has come yet again and as always has brought with it, the memories of my childhood. I remember the summer vacations I spent with my cousin Sushrut and grandmother at her place in the village. Those were the best days of my life. Grandmother had a garden complete with mango and cashew trees and our servant Vassant would pick lots of cashew apples for us. There was a huge porch where we would play wrestling, cricket and football. We quarreled a lot over who gets to play with the pet dog. Grandmother would then take us to work with her in the garden. When she asked us which plants we would like to plant, I planted cotton for that would give her cotton for her ‘lugdem’ and Sushrut chose chilly for grandmother grew her cooking chilly in her backyard. She loved trees and she loved children. She never lost her temper with children

Our morning would begin with sound grandmother’s prayers; a breakfast of kanji and a drink of the traditional Goan Ambil after this, we wrestled and raced in the courtyard while grandmother went about her daily business. Our favorite activity was beating Vassanta the servant. He was an orphan found on street and brought up by our grandmother. The moment we started beating him, grandmother came running out of the house and warned him to stay away from us. We used to beat Vassant because he beat grandmother’s cow Kapila. Sadly, even after Kapila died, we did not give up on beating Vassant.

Uncle Bal and Uncle Mahesh would return in the afternoon from their electrical appliances shop in Ponda town for a short rest. They multiplied our fun with their share of practical jokes and surprise gifts. Their stories form another part of the interesting jigsaw puzzle my home is. Those I leave for Sushrut to tell.

Tell our readers about our ‘Genies’ will u Sushrut?

Twilight was time for an evening walk with the grandmother and as night approached, the uncles returned and brought with them things that made us jump with joy. We would be so excited, grandmother could not control us. Then she used her magic wand-stories.

She sat below an old peepal tree and pretended she was talking to the trees “if my grandsons do not come, I tell stories to you o dear trees!” We would quickly sit before her, still as idols of gods. Out in the porch because power would sometimes be out, she lit the sacred lamp Niranjan by the Tulsi plant and begin…

This poem is dedicated to the memory of those nights of storytelling,






A night at grandmother’s


High up in the darkened skies
Stars twinkle as diamonds
By the side of kindling fire
A magical night unfolds.

Long after light has receded
And sun says farewell,
The familiar voice beckons
Grandmother has stories to tell

Lamps are oiled and flamed
And shadows begin to dance
Behold my children
We begin our journey to a trance

Restless and excited
Twittering birds
Are caught still
In grandmothers prism of words

Darkness deepens
And cold winds blow
Children drift to sleep
Steady and slow