The inherited

 My maternal grandmother-Aaji was a poor woman. She didn't leave heaps of gold or hectares of land for her only child, my mother. Her sarees were also cheap polyester and nylon. Her wedding silk saree and the ones gifted by her nieces, nephews, and later my mother were the only pricey possessions she had. 

My grandfather was a civil engineer who never believed in taking anything more than he deserved. Thus, my Aaji had limited resources to run the house. Yet, she made sure my mother was educated and worked as a banker till full retirement. Though Aaji had a Godrej cupboard in which the entire family's clothes were accommodated and still there was space, my mother today has an entire wardrobe to her name with silks from varied corners of the country jostling for space. Aaji gave her the power to build an inheritance that she herself couldn't raise. 

Last Aaji passed away at a ripe age of 94 years. She left a one-room apartment for Aai. The place soon went into redevelopment and Aai had to shift Aaji's belongings. Being highly occupied with my life, I didn't ask her about what she did with Aaji's old single bed where we played, slept, and on occasions had a fancy lunch on it. I didn't care to inquire to the large dabbas in which she stored kurdai and papads for us. I was busy in life to ask about Aaji's sarees. When Aai asked me, will I wear those sarees. I frowned and said who wears sarees these days. Too much of a work. She urged me to stitch dresses out of them but I refused the pattern being old fashioned. Aai didn't push further. 

Last week when I visited Belgaum, the first house my parents bought as a couple, I was shocked to see how the house had been redone. Yes, the house was revamped to look like my Aaji's Parla home. Aai had used her cupboards, utensils, her dining table, and even her sarees to make curtains. It felt as if I had gone on a vacation to Aaji's house-Parla (Vile Parle for many). 

When the curtains bellowed in the wind, it was as if Aaji standing by her balcony after a tiring day to watch the quiet sunset. When I opened the creaking Godrej cupboard, I could hear Aaji gently instructing, take whatever you want but shut the cupboard properly. While I lazed on her bed, Aaji's touch and scent permeated my senses. Aaji was not gone. Aaji is here. Aai brought back her inheritance and her mother alive through the meager possessions she had received. While we stay in polished, furnished interiors, homes build by my mother from scratch and memories soak us in nostalgia. 

Spending vacations in the lap of luxurious resorts is good. But for me, getting acquainted to my childhood and Aaji again was better than visiting a distant, foreign location.