Spiritual Perspectives
What's Grandma got to do with it?

By Sanjay Choudhrie
Special to The Independent

It happened the usual way. A phone call in the dark hours of the morning. And my brother at the other end of the world telling me that my beloved grandmother, or Dadi, as I knew her was dead, aged 100.

Dadi was special. She was born into a family of Hindu temple attendants and priests. Her oldest brother moved the family away to the local Presbyterian mission in Miraj, and she was baptized Daya at age four or five. She stayed there and eventually became a nurse and met my grandfather. After my father was born, they moved to central India and worked in a mission hospital until they retired.

I met her first in 1968 when my family moved back to India. She was huddled on a wheelchair having survived TB and then a broken hip. She should have died but she didn't. It was the first time I saw my strong charismatic father break down and sob on her lap. He had not known that she was so sick. The next time I saw him cry was when I took my bride home after an absence of more than twelve years.

When we were kids and visiting home from boarding school, we would cuddle up in bed with Dadi and she would tell us stories. Bible stories mostly and stories about the Marathas fighting off the Mogul invasion of India. I thought of the biblical David as a Maratha warrior. Small, wiry, scrawny, cunning and strong. Willing and able to take on the superior forces possessing superior technology with nothing but cunning and courage.

Dadi lived the words of St. Francis, "preach the gospel always. When necessary use words." No stranger was let go without a meal. The poor were given extra food, clothing and money much to my grandfather's disgust. She didn't care what you had done, hurt, stolen or taken.

Dadi also had a streak of stubbornness and persistence in her which is why TB, meningitis and a broken hip in the context of primitive health care could not kill her. She wanted to see her grandchildren. She might not have been the best academic, but I have no doubt that she was a good nurse in the old tradition the tradition of healing, not fixing. She was also the only person who could tell my father what he could and couldn't do. And she did it in a way that it never seemed inappropriate even though we were there and watching and listening. That and he always got a kiss on his head when she was done. It's simply not done to the CEO of the largest enterprise in town, even he's your son.

I didn't know her very well. I don't know her favorite colors or the foods she liked or what she liked to do for fun. All I know is that I was her adored and accepted first grandchild, born on her wedding anniversary. She called me her anniversary gift. During my difficult teenage years as the headstrong son of her headstrong son and similar husband, she would annoy me with her affection and unconditional love.

Later I came to count on this love and affection. I would ask her questions about her childhood, but somehow her hearing aid never quite worked in Hindi or English or shouting. Its was almost the same as trying to interview the Silent Generation that precedes our Boomers.

Without a high school diploma, my grandmother went on to do nursing residencies in Detroit and Johns Hopkins and all of this just made her more admirable to me.

In the black church, it is customary to cite one's grandmother when seeking to give authority to a point one is making. Only then does one introduce other theologians.

I can't quote Dadi, but I can tell you that God is a mystery and always will be. There is much I don't know about God. But I do know that God loves us like my Dadi loved me. Unconditionally accepting me for who I am and was. Rejoicing in my efforts and loving me when I thought I was unlovable because of something stupid I had done. It might be helpful in our knowing God to think her as grandmother. My brother said to me that morning in describing her death my brother who has visited with death a bit in his occupation as a surgeon that he suddenly realized in all his life that Dadi had never ever asked him for anything, and now on her deathbed she wanted a backrub. I wish I was there. I hope that all of us will have someone to give us a backrub on our deathbed before we journey into the ever after.

Dayabai Choudhrie died on December 5, 2006. Sanjay, one of twenty-seven or more beloved grandchildren of Dayabai Choudhrie, also serves as Executive Director of CARE 66, which creates opportunities to end homelessness so that we can all live and die as family accompanied by our loved ones. Sanjay Choudhrie can be reached at (505) 722-0066 most days of the week.

This column is the result of a desire by community members, representing different faith communities, to share their ideas about bringing a spiritual perspective into our daily lives and community issues.

For information about contributing a guest column, contact Elizabeth Hardin-Burrola at the Independent: (505) 863-8611, ext. 218 or lizreligion01@yahoo.com.