Family

I woke up to a text message from my mother this this morning; “to let you know, Brish bua passed away this peacefully on Ganesh morning”. Bua, in Hindia, means paternal sister. It’s one of those things I’ve always loved about my language, how every familial relation has a word. There’s not just aunts and uncles, there’s a specific word for our fathers younger brother (Chachu), or your mother’s sister-in-law (Mami). Everyone is given a title, their rightful place in the family tree.

Brish bua was my grandfather’s oldest sister, the grand aunt. My grandfather was the youngest brother of five sisters so our frequent family reunions were run by the matriarchs. Brish bua was the queen of these, always the older sister. Yet, she never had the imposing qualities most family heads hold. She was a small woman in her late seventies, wrinkled like an old tree, every line a short story in a life well lived. She would always speak softly, to the extent that half your time talking to her would be spent leaning in closer.

Growing up, my brother and I would be taken to her home every few weeks for a Sunday brunch between all the family members who currently lived in Bombay. The first thing I’d always notice walking into her house was the shoes. All the shoes of the arrivals would be piled up in the foyer, right by the door. There were never less than 20 pairs, some segments of the family attempting organizes, pairing their shoes in neat lines. Others, like us, just left our shoes wherever we could find the space. This wasn’t a new sight; I saw the parade of shoes every time we entered a party or gathering in Bombay. Shoes were always taken off at the doorway, so as not to bring outside dirt into our homes. But still they were the first thing I would look at walking into Brish bua’s home. I’d use them to try and get a gauge on who was already here. When I was younger I’d look for other shoes from the kids section, trying to find the cousins and avoid the grown ups. Now I just looked at the shoes themselves, as a collective, realizing slowly that only one pair of those seeming endless shoes actually lived in the home I was about to enter.

Her apartment was on the 16^th floor, with a beautiful bay view of Bombay. Walking in, it always smelled like home cooked food. My mother always says food from your mother’s hands tastes best, this transferred exponentially across generations. Brish bua’s simple vegetarian meals were always delicious, and always satisfied in a way that only family food can. Younger me would always glimpse up at my father during these meals, and I’d notice that he was eating like me for once. He was the child at the table too, savoring every bite of his meal, while trying to stay inconspicuous to the older generation at the table. He’d always ask for seconds with desert.

Brish bua would preside over the meal, sitting in her chair at the head of the table. She wouldn’t talk much, and when she did it was always a question directed specifically at someone. She’s ask my brother about college, ask me about my school projects. She remembered a stunning amount, photos from the play I had been in a year ago, the service project my brother worked on his sophomore year of high school. She was always genuine, checking up with every single member of the family.

I don’t know when exactly all of this changed, but it did. The brunches continued, the family get together’s never stopped, but Brish bua changed. There was the year she began needing help moving from seat to seat, one of the grand children chosen to accompany her each time. The lack of mobility wasn’t so bad, she would still ask her questions, still make you lean in closer to talk to her. But then, one year, Brish Bua confused me with my mother, suddenly her grand daughter became one of the daughter in laws. My cousin Kiran became her mother. My father was his father. Eventually she started referring to all of the women in the room by her sisters’ names, and all the men by my grandfathers.

It’s’ not an easy thing to witness, the family rock falling apart. It’s not an easy thing to write, losing the ability to coherently understand the world. Words and family are two of the things I hope to keep a part of my life forever. Yet, both these things may one-day slip away from my mind, like salt through a sieve, memories and vocabulary gone so quickly. So how do you cope? You ask the specific questions, make people lean in closer as they talk to you, if only to spend a little more time with them while you still remember who they are.