on, but her extremely fair complexion was visible underneath, even in the dark. I carefully examined her before recognizing her from the photo my mom had shown me. She was my grandmother; my Dhadhi. She moved slowly, with a slight limp, but she kept her gaze steady as she smiled and made her way towards me.
“Ah, my child! My Dilawar’s daughter! Let me look at you!” She rested her hand on my cheek and analyzed me from top to bottom, after which she settled her gaze once again upon my face. Her smile grew wider and wider with each passing moment, but after the long look, tears slowly began to roll down her face. “You remind me just of your father. He was very handsome when he was your age. You have his face.” She threw her arms around me and wept softly.
I didn’t quite know what to say in return. My father’s urn was still in my hand. I tried to balance it with my left hand while I wrapped my right arm around her.
“Dhadhi, I’m very happy to finally meet you. Dad always talked a lot about you. The family misses you very much.” I repeated what my mother had told me to say and hoped that it would offer her some comfort.
I had never known the love of a grandmother. My mom’s parents had both passed away when I was just a baby. I used to ask my father why his parents didn’t live in Canada with the rest of us, and of course he had always just shrugged it off.
“Oh, is this him? Is this my child?” Dhadhi asked, looking at the emerald sack held in my hand.
“Yes, it’s Daddy’s . . . well, yes,” I stammered, holding it up for her to see properly.
“May I?” she asked softly, her eyes firmly fixed on the object before her.
“Of course, I mean, you are his mother,” I answered carefully as I moved it in her direction. I feared triggering any further emotion in her. I wasn’t new to seeing Indian women grieve. The days and weeks immediately following my father’s passing were still fresh in my memory. The women were uncontrollable in many respects.
She hesitated for a moment as tears continued to stream down her fair but aged face. She held up her hands and caressed it before taking it into her grasp. She then removed the green sack, kissed the top of the wooden box and held it tightly against her bosom. I stood watching her as she wept harder and cried out for her son, whom she had not seen for almost thirty years. I felt a cold chill go down my neck as I watched the immensely emotional and tragic interaction of a mother searching for the warmth of her son in a wooden box of ashes. As disconcerting as the image was for me, I couldn’t help but feel sad for her. My face began to feel hot, and my vision blurred, enough for me to realize that I too had tears streaming down my face.
As I watched her cry, I felt a fire burn within me. My stomach felt like it was doing flip-flops, and my breathing became heavier. I couldn’t bear seeing her in this state of despair. I wanted to hug her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. I wanted to reassure her that she was loved. All the feelings that I had for my mother were now being directed towards this old woman whom I had never known or met until this moonlit night.
Was this the love between a grandparent and a grandchild? What I had missed my entire life until now? Perhaps it was mere pity or a reflection of my own sadness at losing my father?
As I stood debating my feelings, another woman came through another one of the doors and made directly for Dhadhi, where she wrapped her arms around her and told her what I could not. “Dhadhi, calm yourself. Have faith in Waheguru. Everything will be made all right by Him.”
“Yes, child, you are right,” Dhadhi replied as she wiped her tears and placed the urn back into the rich emerald sack.
“You must be Esha,” the woman said as she looked my way with a smile, then pulled me into a gentle embrace. She stood as tall as me and wore a traditional salwar-kameez, with a shawl draped around her. Her thick black hair was tied back into a neat bun. She too had a fair complexion that was visible under the moonlight. There was a glow in her large round eyes that hinted at a warm and kind-hearted character.
“Yeah, I’m Esha. I just got here.”
“I am Jas! Well, Jasdeep, but no one calls me by my full name. I am Ekant’s wife! So that makes me your sister-in-law!” she said with a wide smile, showing that she was genuinely excited at the prospect of our relationship.
“Wow, wife, eh? I didn’t know Ekant was married,” I blurted out, not knowing how foolish I might seem in front of her, not knowing such an important thing about my own family.
“Really? Well then, there is a lot you do not know, but it is a good thing you came. We can now become better acquainted,” she replied, still smiling. “However, I am very sorry to hear about your father. Even though he was Ekant’s uncle, Ekant has always viewed him as his own father.” Her gaze fell to the urn. There was an awkward silence as she continued to look at it, as though she were lost in deep thought. The sudden silence made me uncomfortable.
“So, um . . . where is Ekant?” I asked in an effort to change the subject. I was curious to meet him and to find out why he hadn’t come to collect me from the airport himself. I felt he could have at least made the effort.
“Oh,” Jas said, “he was called away by one of his business associates. Some business matter.”
“This late at night?” I asked.
“Well, time is not really an issue,” she replied. “I am sure it was important, otherwise he would not have left, especially when you were due to arrive. Now, come on in. We’ve spent way too long standing out here. You must be tired. Allow us to get you settled in.” She began to shuffle about, checking the car to make sure I hadn’t left anything, then she led me to a nearby door.
Watching her closely, I could sense that she was making a concerted effort to make it appear as if there was nothing fishy about Ekant’s absence. Perhaps it was just business, but at midnight? I had flown thousands of miles with my father’s ashes. It was the first time I was to meet this mysterious son of the family, and he wasn’t here. A little voice in my head kept telling me that things might not be so smooth after all, and that made me nervous.
I followed Jas and Dhadhi into what appeared to be a living room. The light was quite dim. The room was simple, yet colourful and spacious. Yellow glass adorned the windows directly opposite to where I was standing in the doorway. Sofas with green fabric and wooden frames were set up in the middle of the room, along with black chairs and a red rug beneath them. There was a wooden desk, and bookshelves were scattered along the walls. The opening behind the living room revealed a dining area, and there were doors leading outside and doors on the left and right, which I figured were for other rooms in the house. The family wasn’t much for decorating, though. None of the furniture matched, really. There were just simple wooden things thrown together to fill the space.
“Esha, this is the sitting room, and the kitchen is through the door on the right, just behind the dining table,” Jas said as she pointed to yet another brown wooden door on the right. “I’ll show you your room, where you can freshen up, unpack, then you can eat. You must be hungry.”
“I actually had dinner right before the plane landed, so I’m okay. I’m just very tired, but thanks.”
“Esha, child, you must eat something. You have travelled so far,” insisted Dhadhi.
“No, Dhadhi, it’s okay. I’m fine. I just need to sleep; it’s been a long trip. Where is everyone else though, I mean, Ekant’s mother, is . . .”
“She
