The Grandmother I Never Met
It was a polaroid-shaped, black-and-white photo that I was holding in my hand, and the beautiful, long-haired woman in it was my grandmother.


It was a polaroid-shaped, black-and-white photo that I was holding in my hand, and the beautiful, long-haired woman in it was my grandmother.
The 70 year old ashtray is made of brass, with a head resembling Mahakala, a deity revered in Buddhism and associated with wisdom, protection and the removal of obstacles, and limbs shaped around the belly, which doubles as the deposit area. Though not of great antiquity, it has been an important part of three generations.
I discovered this postcard quite unexpectedly in our family home in Digboi, Assam. More than just a piece of paper, it felt like a doorway into a moment from sixty years ago. Finding it made me curious about a chapter of my grandparent’s lives that I had never witnessed — a time when they lived apart, Babaji in London and Biji in Phagwara. I found myself wondering what he had written to her, how long she had waited for news from him, and what she must have felt when this postcard finally arrived.
As I wandered through the house with my great-grandmother, 55 years of age and experience separating us, I became almost childlike. I opened cupboards I had never thought to open before, pulled out forgotten objects, and asked endless questions. She would laugh, answer, and then another story would appear.

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