A Common History

History happened here. It wasn’t the kind of history that made the news, or the kind that was mentioned in history text books that children thirty years from now would have to memorize. It wasn’t even the kind of history that the village would talk about in the coming months or years. It was a simple history. A history of love and kindness. Of sacrifice. Of a mother and a son. Of long days under the scorching sun and short nights on cold and sandy floors. Of infinite paddy fields surrounding their mud thatched house. Of one jute sleeping mat, patterned green and red, spread on the floor. Of a mosquito net unfurled, protective, above the mat. Of clay floor stoves just inches away, surrounded by steel pans and mud pots. Of spice jars filled with every flavor imaginable. Of a tiny well shared by a hundred villagers. Of the two mile walk from their thatched house to the well, women barefoot and braving the heat. Of the little brass pot that was filled with their days' water supply, that they rationed ever so carefully. History happened here, and all it was, was the struggle of everyday life. The greatest history ever.

Writing prompts: Character sketches

Almost as if forced into a uniform, my grandfather would spend everyday in white attire - a cotton shirt and pant, with very stereotypical brown sandals that almost every South Indian man over forty could be seen wearing. The outfit was starched to stiffness and as crisp as a hundred rupee note. I don’t have a single memory of him wearing something out of this patterned white - a white that matched his hair, his smile, and the talcum powder that he always smelled of.

Disciplined through and through, he would sit at the dining table for breakfast at 10am each morning, on the exact same chair, that was interestingly, NOT the quintessential ‘head of the table’ chair. My grandmother would place a large silver plate on the table, along with a steel water glass. Once he took his seat, my grandfather would pour some water from his glass into his right hand and rather artistically sprinkle it around his plate. I always wondered why he did that and I never, ever had the courage to ask. I found out years later that it is a South Indian tradition that is supposed to prevent ants and other insects from intruding into your food. 

My grandfather was also disciplined about his vices. In his younger days, he was a smoker. While he wasn’t a heavy drinker, he would end each day with a glass of  'Mcdowell's No. 1'  whiskey and soda. He had a mini fridge hidden in his bedroom- my grandparents' attempt at hiding this habit from their eight grandchildren.

Now, he is frail, weakened. He no longer drinks or smokes because his health doesn’t permit him to. But some old habits die hard; I visited him last summer and watched as he sat on the exact same chair, did his water sprinkle, ate. He started talking to me about food - a topic that hits home. My family has a farming background, and as a kid my grandfather worked hard on his families' fields. He knew the ins and outs of farming and was incredibly passionate about it.

"We never had to worry about food being ‘organic’. Everything we ate was farmed by us, and it genuinely was free of chemicals. It was all fresh, and absolutely delicious. When I moved to the city, this was one of the biggest changes and challenges for me. I missed the days when I was actively involved in my families’ farm. We ate eggs right from chickens that we reared in our backyard. I helped decompose the manure that we used in all our fields."

He went on to tell me about how the price of milk and rice is a hundred times what it used to be, followed by other “in my time” grandfather phrases. He never spoke about himself or his feelings, and rarely spoke about his childhood. These few sentences were a treasure to me and while I was eager for more, the conversation quickly changed paths.

There are many things about my grandfather that are still intriguing to me. He absolutely adores my grandma but also never, ever calls her by her name. He is terrifying to his grandchildren to the point that we would all literally tiptoe around him- but with that fear comes great respect for this self-made man who left his tiny village for the big city and created a new life for his family.