#SheInspiresMe

Alma Delacroix:

The one who taught me that it’s your own decisions and actions that shape your character, not others’ actions.

The one who taught me that kindness and selflessness is what the world needs.

The one who taught me to stand my ground, to be different, despite being ridiculed by others.

My grandma Alma is the only grandparent I knew. Not many people get to live to their 80 in India. She almost made it to 80.

I was in my rebellious teens when she passed on, but thankfully I had settled down enough to have some interesting conversations with her. We bonded over the jumble that came in the newspaper each day. Both of us loved doing it, so she changed her habit of pencilling in the answer, early in the morning, in the only copy of the paper we’d receive, since I only got to read the paper late in the evening.

She wasn’t the eldest in her family, but was the most responsible. Her siblings all grown with grandchildren of their own would still come to her for advice and assistance. She worked odd jobs as governess and teacher before she was married. She had 16 kids of whom 10 survived. With just one breadwinner in the family, she soon became seamstress for the locality just to make ends meet.

That wasn’t the only battle she faced though. Grandpa was an alcoholic and a wife-beater. He’d come home on payday with most of his check already blown and she’d herd the children into the only bedroom they had so that he wouldn’t beat them up. 6 miscarriages owed to domestic violence. One day after a particularly brutal beating, she sought refuge in her sister’s house. Instead of finding peace, her brother-in-law forced himself on her and her sister’s nonchalant response was “You have to pay to stay here, right”. She returned to her husband that very night. For years she never told anyone of this. An aunt of mine resorted to victim blaming. She bore all this in silence. She never denied her sister help but she never visited that sister again, no matter how good/bad the circumstances.

This wasn’t an easy conversation for either of us, but when I heard it, so many bits of the puzzle fell into place. Her “Don’t go visiting people at their houses” rule. Her “Repay your debts, don’t owe anyone anything” motto. Her “Don’t depend on a man” advice.

Another incident stands out, one of the many times that kids would crowd at the lane in front of our house, point and laugh at my grandma cause she was the only one who wore dresses in a locality that was majorly Hindu and Muslim. When they caught sight of her, they’d point, laugh and sometimes throw stones too. One day after patiently tolerating their jibes for an hour, she cheekily walked out to the gaping herd and asked them “Are you enjoying the show?”. They scattered like chaff in a strong breeze. Not just kids, even grownups had a problem with her not choosing to wear a saree. That never stopped her from wearing dresses. Square neck, box-pleats, pockets and a slight flair. That was her signature dress. No matter the pressure to change and blend in, she never did.

And boy, did she sew! All the wedding dresses, embroidered blankets for the little babies. Dresses and capes. Frills and Pleats. She even made mittens and caps and anything that would catch her fancy. From each masterpiece she’d sew, she’d save a little bit to make a patchwork quilt or a dress for a baby. It always delighted me to see her little creations. I still remember her humming away at her machine. The noise stopping ever so often as some part fell off and she’d try to put the machine together before continuing the humming.

I don’t remember her favourite song. I do remember she’d always choose the part of a dish that nobody wanted. The rice that was stale and stiff, or the neck of the chicken that everyone despises being served. But she relished it, because for years, that’s all she had, sometimes not even that.

I wish I had more time with her. There are so many unasked questions I have. So many things I would have loved to give her. So many people I’d love to introduce her to. But she went too soon. I remember the night she suddenly took a turn for the worse. She spent the night in pain and the next morning, I tried to speak with her before leaving to college. I wasn’t allowed into the room where she was, but she was aware of me being shooed out. She leaned out, and raised her hand in goodbye while mouthing God Bless You. She knew it was over. It was written all over her face. I felt it too. But after the long conversations I had with her, I knew she was ready. Up there, a chorus sang “Hallelujah, she’s home”!

Even now, I hear echoes of her voice in my head. When I know my actions might hurt someone I can hear her say “Would you be able to look yourself in the eye once you do that?”. When I’m unfairly judged, she goes “In the end it’s between you and God. People will always have an opinion.”.

She had more courage than anyone I know. I knew she had a terrible, difficult life, but she didn’t complain. She chose to learn a lesson instead, she chose to smile, to share nuggets of wisdom, to laugh at simple pleasures, she chose to pick herself up and walk through life with her head held high.

I’d love to be half the woman my Nanna was.