Maa

When I was young, still living in New York, I would often wake from my sleep, deep in the middle of the night, and wake up my grandmother

Maa, as I called my grandmother, would know what I wanted: a snack, and specifically a “mani with sugar”—essentially a chapati sprinkled with sugar and then rolled up into a handheld treat. Maa would take these mid-night wake-ups in stride, never complaining, always knowing that I would be grateful for her care and would go back to sleep happy, full, and loved.

Maa would walk me to school in the morning; it wasn’t a short walk, and it went through neighborhoods that were considered, at least back then, “rougher” than others in the city. She never flinched, and in fact was respected by all members of the communities where we walked and lived. She was an elder, and they took care of her as she took care of me.

Maa, and my grandfather until he passed away just before I was eight years old, raised me when I was young. As recent immigrants to first the US and then to Canada, my parents worked hard to keep us financially afloat; Maa and Bapa were my primary caregivers and ensured that I was fed, that my school work was done, that I was connecting with the community where we lived.

It was a privilege to grow up in a household that held three generations of family. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and a large part of my village was there under the one roof of our three-bedroom apartment. Until I moved out to go to school, my whole life was scaffolded by the people in our home, and the strongest pillar of that scaffolding was my grandmother.

A few weeks ago, my grandmother passed away, just shy of her 91st birthday. In the past few years, her health had been deteriorating, and she was growing weaker and found it harder to move around. She had survived a stroke, stomach cancer, and many other ailments; eventually, her body gave in to age and she died peacefully, surrounded by many members of the family.

As much as I remember Maa from my childhood, I have many fond memories of her in her later years as well. I am glad that she was able to spend good time with her great-granddaughter whenever we went into town to visit, and love looking at the photos of the two of them smiling as they played together. I remember Maa beaming at her 90th birthday party last year, so happy that she was able to celebrate the milestone with over fifty of her friends and family. Even at her older age, Maa still loved being in the kitchen, even guiding and directing her home care support people in what to do after she could not physically cook anymore.

During the bereavement ceremonies, I sang a ginan at jamatkhana; it was Maa that taught me my first ginan and I thought of her as I sang. My voice broke at one point, but I kept going, knowing Maa would be proud of me.

It’s hard to lose someone who was your anchor for such a huge part of your life, and I miss Maa every day. I miss hearing her stories of her time as a baker, her time as a teacher, even the harrowing times she lived through during the Zanzibar Revolution. Most of all, I miss the immense love and care she had for every member of her family.

Hers is a legacy of love and care that I know every member of the family will cherish and uphold. Maa is gone but never forgotten; I will make a mani with sugar in the middle of the night and remember the incredible woman who made me who I am.

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