Hometown: An Intersection Where My Grandmother, Mother, and I Collide
Of my grandmother's passing, everything she left behind, and everything that followed after.
On December 12th, 2021, my grandmother was laid on the ground six feet below us. Her grave, with other family members from our village that had passed, is located in the middle of small woods. Yellow leaves were falling as we put her down on that lonely hole. We threw in the soil we had gripped beforehand, filling the gap little by little before the shovels could do their work, returning her body back to the earth that had given a life to her as well as the lavenders on the front yard of her, now, former house—those plants bloomed as the sun rose and withered as the dusk arrived. We dug the ground and filled her grave just like she filled our famished bellies with stir fry and mendoan whenever we came back to our hometown for Eid al-Fitr or a vacation during semester break.
When we faced the west to pray, the woods ahead of me were spread out as if behind those bushes, there was a pair of eyes watching us. That would not be the first time I had such wild imaginary. This childlike feeling never vanished, even after years of growing up, even after those forests gradually turned into bricks and dreams were nothing more than a fantasy. Despite all that, I wanted to tell my grandma about a piece of mind that remained unchanged even though time has proven itself to be an eroding wave and I am of debris from an abraded cliff. A small portion of my thought is an innocent notion preserved by a child version of me in the body of a third-year college student who is afraid still with how fast everything passes by. I should have told her sooner. How am I supposed to tell her, now, about soft creatures lurking behind the trees and the love I store for people who do not exist, when the dirt had swallowed her and I myself have decayed?
The drizzle came not long after prayers were chanted. Just like the sweat we had gathered on our temple, the drips were not sufficient to mask our tears. If only the rain poured harder, faster, relentlessly, then perhaps greetings we did not have enough time to say to her could be delivered as the water penetrated the clay-like soil our slippers stepped on and the white shroud that enfolded grandma's fragile body.
“Grief is perhaps the last and final translation of love. And I think, you know, this is the last act of loving someone. And you realize that it will never end. You get to do this to translate this last act of love for the rest of your life.”
— Ocean Vuong, from this interview.
My mother initially wanted to be a nurse. Opposing to what she wanted, grandmother always pushed at least one of her children to become a teacher. My mother, who had absolutely no passion regarding the said field, being the altruistic masochist daughter as well as person that she always is, took her chance. After graduating from a teaching institution instead of a nursing one, she applied for law in a university back in her hometown. She could not possibly take medical school because she had no prior knowledge of biology, let alone chemistry.
Born as my mother’s personal vengeance, years after the rejection, I am now pursuing legal studies.
For as long as I have lived, I never pegged my grandma as a demanding person. Instead, she gave, gave, and gave what she had. “Eat, Dina, I have not seen you touch a single food.” “What are you doing eating so little? Add some rice to the soup!” She built two additional bathrooms adjacent to the dining room and the back chamber so that when all her children and grandchildren arrived, they did not have to wait for each other just to take a piss. Frankly, those bathrooms are hideous, despite serving their purpose.
She immediately agreed upon the suggestion to widen the length of a pathway next to her house so that our neighbor’s newly bought car could pass easily. The road extension decreased the total ground area that belonged to my aunt.
Even after my aunts’ families managed to purchase a car, my other aunt earned a secure job that gave her a steady income, my parents renovated our house, and my uncle was living independently with his wife, my grandmother never asked for anything. Not something economically expensive, at least. Not until she got sick and was worried we could not enjoy coming back to our hometown because her old refrigerator was broken, so she purchased a new one. Not until the illness ate her and she begged my aunt to buy a new set of bed and mattress so my little cousin could sleep peacefully when he arrived from the city. She never got to taste the cold drink we stored in her new glistening fridge. She only slept on the soft mattress because otherwise her legs would give in.
How could anyone that was ever so giving and never asked for anything be the reason of a child did not get to live up to her dream? I never blamed my grandmother for that, nor did I blame my mother when she made several unsolicited choices for me. I suppose everyone has a certain amount of contradiction within, whether or not it is something they are aware of. I suppose a relationship between a mother and her daughter is an intricate and gradual progression of figuring each other out.
I did not enter university because I have the same pressure that my friend from law school has. All her siblings have gone through postgraduate studies, and she is, by nature, demanded to match the strides of her sisters and brothers. I entered university, I realized now, simply because I had the opportunity to. Other personal and overstated purposes such as wanting to become a journalist or be a good representative to my country in the eye of global citizens come third, fourth, or even last. The second one is making my parents proud.
None of my parents went to college. It is not something I am ashamed of, nor do I think of as a failure. My father worked as a cleaning service, a driver, up to a worker in a coal company to make a living after giving up his own chance to pursue a degree so that my aunt did not have to. My mother traveled far north to work in a lumber company where she met my father. My parents like to reminisce about the memorable moments they spent there, when they used to own a plot of paddy field in our hometown purchased by the money they saved. They strive to feed their two children up until now. That is hardly a failure.
Their income fluctuates over time. I know how it feels to come to my grandma’s house carrying a large box of black forest tart inside so we could eat it after Eid prayer. I also know how it feels to stay at our house in the city, celebrating the special day at the mosque nearby; the fuel money that should be used to travel to our hometown is used to buy four portions of satay afterwards.
I entered university because my parents prepared their whole life to get me into one. Not only did they manifest it financially, but their effort can also be seen during the time I spent in the storeroom with my mom as she impatiently taught me algebra because our living room was used by my dad’s guests. “Dina, education is important to get you where you want,” my mom reminded me every time I slacked off. If there is one thing my mom genuinely wants, it is not her favorite almond bread from Bread Talk I buy for her whenever I have spare money to spend nor is it a plate of spaghetti creamy turkey I treat for her, but for me to be able to live my life without having to experience the hardships she did. She made it so easy for me to make my own choice for the major that I wanted to pursue, completely oblivious to how persistent she used to be at picking new clothes for me when I was younger.
“I remember these things clearly because that was how my mother loved you, not through white lies and constant verbal affirmation, but in subtle observations of what brought you joy, pocketed away to make you feel comforted and cared for without even realizing it.”
— From “Crying in H Mart” by Michelle Zauner
My hometown, which is my mom’s hometown, shaped her into who she is. My grandmother, who was my mom’s mother, shaped a warrior. A fighter who comes home at least twice every year with a gleaming smile I translate as pride whenever she shows me off to her relatives. “This is my daughter. She is a law student.” Education is tangible. It is a measurable currency to gauge what is currently happening in someone else’s life. Kindness is a subjective outlook, a quality I still continuously learn to be, something that I selfishly hope my mom and dad will come to acknowledge exists in me. A hope for them to recognize that they did not only nourish and nurture a child who grew up to be a lucky undergraduate student, but also a good person.
im so sorry for your lost dina.. im always in love with the amount of warmth you offer thru your writings <3 wishing you all the fun and comfortable learnings on college from today onwards!