An ode to the hands of our grandmothers: An Ismaili story

We can always rely on our grandmothers to encourage our childish cheekiness…

They sneak us bits and pieces as they assemble the samosas and the dokhras, always making sure to roll a special little rotli, one just for us.

They’re the ones that make us karahi chicken every time we want it, who insist on giving us $2 for the apple pie we have to order in the drive through, who hush our parents and hand over their wallets when our incessant requests for toys are denied.

My dadima was always that person for me. We bonded over recipes, her laughing at my exasperation at the lack of measurements (aankh thi maro, just use your eyes) while I tried to keep up with her deft sprinkles of one spice and artful dashes of another. Food continued to be our common ground, her later years spent poking at my culinary creations with curiosity, Susu naiku andher? (What did you put in this?)

My cheeky response? Susu nathi naiku ma, that’s chafu! (I didn’t put in susu, that’s gross! Susu means ‘what, what’ but it’s also what children use to reference the outcome of their bodily functions.)

I was definitely the bane of her existence, constantly finding joy in being the cheeky monkey and the dodh dai, knowing she’d love me anyway. In the years we lived together, I let my hamster loose on her bed, finding joy and hilarity in her expressions of dismay as she watched it dart across the covers.

I added hot water to my jar of apple cider vinegar (Cosmo recommended it as a clarifying hair rinse) and brought it to her to see. She held the jar, commented on its yellowness and its warmth, and I told her it was fresh, that the doctor told me to collect it over a week, that I’d drunk a lot more than I’d thought.

I’d poke her when she turned the other way and she’d jump, turning to face me angrily, Daba haath thi maaru? (Shall I pop you with my left hand?), but joining me in my smile instead, tickling me right back.

I was very used to the Guju words she would lovingly call me in these moments… bakri, nakami, navri, sali, and the Swahili one too, matata. I only had one name for her, ma, and saying it aloud now brings comfort and heavy nostalgia.

I cry as I write this but it’s not because I’m sad, it’s because I’m appreciative of the relationship we had. Her being there for me and defending me when I made my parents mad, her keeping my secrets, giving me regular prayers and blessings to find a partner for my future, fine, fine chokro male (may you find a nice, nice boy) and then blessings for a long and happy marital life when I finally brought a boy home to meet her, mawla tane saathe safarta aape (may you find success together). She wanted to see me get married, have children, and see if I’d ever grow up enough to present myself well for the in-laws.

We bickered when I left a plate out, and when I’d complain about the men getting to go watch tv while we were left to clear up, Saga ni saame em karso? (Is this how you’ll act in front of your in laws?). She didn’t understand when I told her I wasn’t in it to cook and clean for him and his family, but she supported my independence anyway… of course, only after expressing the disapproval of her entire generation.

I got the comments about my favourite ripped jeans, Kadha vara kapra, paisa le (Here, take this twenty and buy clothes without holes in them), got put in my place when I was hangry and insolent, but I also got the come lay with me, I’ll play with your hair, let’s watch this movie together, and the sadness in her face when it was time for me to leave.

I showed her my love with hugs, and through food. I’d take her to lunch when I was allowed to take the car, and bring her filet-o-fishes and apple pies. To get around her insistence on paying, I’d cheekily tell her I’d tell I couldn’t remember the total, that I’d tell her later, and then conveniently forget. She wouldn’t, though, and would insist on five dollars tucked into my bag here and five dollars into my pocket there.

She generously shared her stash of British chocolates with me, and we ate them together, on her bed, as I watched her watch her Indian dramas and she watched me watch TLC. It was a special kind of love, the kind of love that created the same magic that context and memories give our favourite foods.

I cherish her karahi chicken recipe, the one recipe I made her give me before I moved to New York, the recipe I made often and in her memory, even though at that time she was alive and only an hour’s flight away. This is better than my mum’s cooking, a friend said, and that was because her love shone even through me.

Food is so special, it represents so much more than a source of sustenance. It’s love, celebration, appreciation, and years of history all rolled into one shareable expression capable of communicating an entire world… in just one bite.

A picture is worth a thousand words, but a bite of food made with a grandmother’s love is worth a million more.