Stories of my Grandmother

My grandmother was called Shrimati Indumati Potdar. We don't know her date of birth precisely, only that she was born in the month of Bhadrapad.

She was educated in Nagpur till she passed 9th std. At the age of 19, she married to my grandfather, Natwarlal Potdar, a telegram clerk and sent away to live at Chopda, a small village on the outskirts Jalgaon. Within 8 years, she had given birth to four children.

It was the year 1972, ten years after their  marriage when my grandfather passed away due to a cardiac arrest. My grandmother was 29 years old, a mother of four and completely without any means to secure their future or her own.She was bereft of her husband and if that was not grief enough,  tradition decreed that she observe a period of mourning for her husband by not stepping out of the house for one whole year. Trapped in the house, a young widow, with unsupportive and condescending in laws, who were barely getting by themselves.

Till she escaped. According to its policies, the Indian Post Office offered the post held by my grandfather to his nearest blood kin. With the support of some close friends, she made the decision to take up the job and packing her two youngest ones, she left for Nagpur.

Even then life was not easy. She had to take up her studies again and clear the 10th std exam to be eligible for the job. Being the only earning member in the family, she regularly sent funds back to Chopda as well. Eventually, she was able to bring the two elder children to live with her again. Educate them and arrange suitable marriages for them. Life went on.

She retired from the post office while I was young. We used to spend hours and hours watching TV. I have so many memories of lying beside her and listening to her tell stories. It used to be my favorite part of the day, going to Dadi's house.

I was ten years old when we left home to move to Mumbai and sixteen when she passed away. During the intervening six years we were barely connected by a bunch of motley phone calls and visits. Even then, our relationship was always that of a doting grandmother and a much beloved grandchild.

I never had a real conversation with her about how it had been. There are so many threads to the tapestry of her life I haven't explored. So many more perspectives to be unveiled.

All I have to know the strong, brave woman that my grandmother was, are a handful of stories. It is these stories that have had a very real and tangible effect on my life. My dad was brought up by her. Unconsciously it may have been, but he learned the value of self reliance and confidence from her. My parents have raised me in a similar culture of independence. They have taught me, by example, theirs and hers, to think for myself and stand by my decisions. It is a part of the legacy my grandmother bequeathed to her family.Her journey is an inspiration for me. Thinking of her gives me confidence and a glorious example to follow.

So when I sit down on women's day to think of all the brave, strong women who have touched my life, her name is top of the list. And will always be.

I believe in the power of storytelling for empowerment. I believe that stories can inspire change. I believe that I have so much more to learn from my grandmother and even though she isn't here to tell me herself, her stories will always be a part of who I am and who I hope to become.

I miss you, Dadi. And I love you.