My Aji

Today is my grandma's birthday. She turns 70.

When I was little, she looked after me, put up with my whims, wet my hair then parted it in the middle and disciplined it into two curly little pigtails. She made me eggs sunny-side up which we ate with pain maison* and tea. She raised her voice to make me see reason and sewed me new dresses all the time. For my fourth birthday, she made me three different little-lady outfits and trotted me to the photo studio to get my pictures taken. She taught me the basic Marathi words and which god to pray to for inspiration in my studies.

She remains the picture of courtesy in the worst circumstances and never attends a wedding without a pink rose in her chignon. Every morning she prays towards the sun, and her heart has room for all of us, scattered in South Africa, France, Réunion, Canada, Mauritius.

She stoically feels our pains, our joys and our hopes, and with a little magic in her fingers and a whispered blessing under her breath, she dispels the evil eye and tries to make everything alright again.


*A round-shaped bread.