Our Mindset Episode 12
I wanted to cook, but that didn’t mean I was about to make corn.
In the evening, my father called, “Your grandmother is coming tomorrow—with a goat.”
I felt both joy and stress. The goat was the joyful part; my grandmother, the stressful part.
She followed a strict diet—no meat, no chapatis, no eggplants, no potatoes, no rice. Only vegetables and bhakri, and that too, strictly made from jowar. Her favorite meal? Milk, bhakri, and fritters. If the lamp went out while eating, she would stop eating. No one was allowed to talk during meals. That was how strict her discipline was.
She woke up at 4 a.m., chewed tobacco, and spat it out at the doorstep. She was physically strong but did no work. According to her, only a tired body could sleep well.
She expected everyone to wake up before her, boil water for her bath, serve tea at six, and breakfast at eight. If these things weren’t done, she’d call my mother-in-law to complain—right in front of me. Then my mother-in-law would get upset, accuse me of not taking proper care of her mother, and stop talking to me.
At her own home, she often didn’t get meals on time, but when she came to my place, she expected to be treated like royalty. Because of her nature, neither of her daughters-in-law were willing to care for her.
Meanwhile, we were running low on groceries. We had only bought vegetables on Sunday. My husband said, “I’ll pick up the groceries and jowar when I bring your grandmother from the village. In the morning, ask Auntie for some wheat when she comes to collect the milk.”
We had sacks of wheat at home, but every day, two or three mice would nibble through them. By morning, at least a kilo of spilled wheat would be scattered on the floor. Yet, I wouldn’t take any without Auntie’s permission.
As instructed, I asked Auntie for wheat. She told me to bring a tray. I had a large one and took it to her.
She measured out exactly three shers (around 2.5 kg) of wheat and poured it into my tray. Then she asked, “Three shers a week is enough for you, right?”
What could I say? Apparently, she was now deciding how much wheat we needed.
What surprised me even more was when she told Mangu, her helper, “Write down three shers of wheat in the ledger.”
Mangu hesitated. “Three shers is five kilos, right?”
I looked at Auntie, waiting for her response. She finally said, “Fine, put down five kilos.”
Back when my mother-in-law was alive, Auntie used to visit us twice a month—bringing along her daughters, sons-in-law, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren. She would arrive with a vehicle packed full.
Back then, I was the one cooking mutton that cost 200 rupees a kilo and making five-kilo batches of bhakris in one go. My sister-in-law would go to the fields, my mother-in-law would chat, and I was left to cook for everyone.
There were ten sacks of wheat at home. If just one had been set aside for me, it wouldn’t have been surprising.
And yet, this same Auntie had once called me a beggar. The man whose wife she was measuring wheat for had toiled for free in her fields for eight years. That’s how she had built her wealth—by feeding him and giving him shelter. And now, she still had the same mindset.