Who knows anyone like my Naani? At first glance she looks like a stereotypical Indian grandmother  in her salwar kameez and floor length night gowns. “100% cotton.” She always says. Nothing else will do. Those that know her, know how many hours she lavishes on painting, and how happy she is to prepare her grandchildren’s favorite dishes. Those that know her well could tell you how she quit tenth grade for an arranged marriage. They could tell you that she had three daughters and a son, and that she started her own school, naming it after her oldest daughter. They could tell you about her love of non-fiction, tales of survival and change, they could tell you lots of things, but only those that know her intimately know how broken hearted she was when her oldest girl left India for America. Only they know how  worried she was when she received a phone call from her daughter saying that she was now engaged to an American boy. Naani did not know what to expect from an American. However, even some of her closest family cannot tell how she felt after the suicide of her husband. She does not talk about it. I do not know.

My favorite part of my Naani are her hands. They are small, with skin like wrinkled tissue paper and worn palms. They can do many things, those hands. They can sew, knit, crochet, and embroider better than anyone else I know. They can make pilaf, each grain of rice so long and light, that everyone always wants to know how she does it. But more than anything else, those hands can hold other hands, smaller than their own, and without wrinkles.  They can clasp those little hands tightly as she tells story after story, some from her imagination, and some from her childhood. Stories of love, hope, and my Naani.