My Nanu: My Quiet North Star

One of my earliest and fondest memories is of waking up under a lep—with a distinct feeling of warmth and security, almost like the feeling you might have in your mother’s womb—in my Nanu’s village home and looking up to read a framed verse, hanging on the opposite wall. It goes like this: the flowers I plucked in my youth are nothing but my gravest mistakes. The depression in the verse would not touch my little mind. I would rather be filled with tenderness as it was embroidered by my Nanu.

Writing about my Nanu—my mother’s mother—has been long overdue, more than two years, since the day she passed away. It took me a long time to come to terms with her death and be able to write about her without an intense emotion blocking my mind.

I heard when I was just a 40-day-old, my mother left me with my Nanu in her village home so that she could complete her graduate studies. I stayed with her until I was two. I don’t remember those early years, but I always remember knowing my Nanu intimately, the way I know my mother. Growing up, I would spend many Ramadan and winter vacations with her in her village home, deepening our bond.

My Nana died young, abruptly, leaving my Nanu, a beautiful young woman, under deep water. A rural woman of some social standing in the 80s’ Bangladesh, she had no way of earning. And her grown-up children had not been able to support her properly for a long time. So, she lived with little means for the best part of her widowed life.

My youngest aunt, who spent the longest time with her after my Nana had died, told me about the endless, uncertain nights of the mother-daughter duo. But she also told me about the deep sense of aesthetics my Nanu cultivated and the superior craftsmanship she used to materialize her aesthetics—on crocheted tablecloths, embroidered bedsheets, tailored clothes, and in the food she cooked. She had this unique ability to navigate her hardship with beauty and grace.

Some of my best memories of her involve food. She cooked for me when I vacationed with her as a child and when she visited us. She continued cooking for me every time I visited her, even when she had been ill and frail until she could cook no more. She knew the art of making simple food delightful. Unlike traditional food overpowered by spices, her food was delicate, with few spices, with complex flavors and lively colors of the main ingredients intact—the bright green of the okra and the silver shine of the Hilsa. As I think back, I see how she found the joy of cultivating her sense of beauty even in her cooking.

Perhaps all women of her time knew sewing and cooking, but she must have had something special. I saw women requesting her to help them make patterns for their blouses or special dishes on special occasions. I always noticed her undivided attention to do her best in anything she did. Perhaps unlike other women of her time, she was a voracious reader. She would read everything that she could lay her hands on. Maybe that’s why she was so reflective? That’s where she got her sense of beauty? Or is it the other way round? I would never know.

In recent days, I had the realization that it was her childlike curiosity that gave her the vitality to keep going. She was a lifelong learner, picking up a new recipe here, a new stitching pattern there. And she kept on making magic with all the bits and pieces she gleaned until her death.

Spirituality was a refuge for her. She would often request me to sing Tagore songs, those of offering, and would listen intently. My Nanu had a meditative mind; she knew how to accept, almost in the sense that Buddha taught. I don’t remember her ever making complaints. She learned how to make do with little and was content.

But she did have her share of grudges. Very few knew about them because she was a private person. I was fortunate to be by her side for many nights during her final years when she was suffering from a multitude of diseases. During those nights, she would open up in sad, tired words. Her complaints had never been about anything material. She only wanted to be cared for by the people she cared for. She received a lot of love, not only from her close relatives but also from most people who knew her. But there were a few important people in her life who failed to love or respect her. This was a constant source of sadness for her. She failed to understand how she, of all people, could cause bitterness in anyone close to her. She would keep on going as I fell asleep.

It took so long for me to come to terms with her death because I felt the way she died was deeply unjust. I always remember her as a small, frail woman. She never ate much, and her lifelong malnutrition started ravaging her body as she grew older. It was painful but manageable. At that point, all her children had long been financially stable and were taking good care of her. My eldest uncle started building a beautiful little house, replacing the crumbling corrugated tin house, which my Nana built half a century ago. She was planning to retire in the new house, surrounded by old friends and relatives. Precisely at that point, she was diagnosed with a Hepatitis C infection.

We could not think of any possible way she could have contracted this disease; still, she had it and was lying in a cold hospital bed, her eyes narrowing in pain, her belly protruding with the inflammation in her liver. She went through long, grueling treatment. She went back to her new home and started decorating it bit by bit. During that time, I visited her a few times. She cooked for me and asked me to sing a song or two. I believed, or wanted to believe, everything would be alright.

But it was not. The endless treatment she went through did not work, but it was supposed to. The virus resurged vigorously. and she was quickly falling apart. She was staying with my aunt, and all she wanted was to see us. We all went, as much as we could. But we were busy, and Dhaka traffic did not help. The visits were never enough. She did not want to understand and would be upset. For the first time in her life, my Nanu became unreasonable. To be honest, at that point, I wanted her to die so that she suffered no more. And one fine morning, she did, without a fuss. Hundreds of people joined her Namaz-E-Janajah from faraway towns and villages, friends and distant relatives who adored her for who she was.

Perhaps my Nanu had no accomplishment worth mentioning. And that’s alright. To me, she is the embodiment of my vision of a life worth living—curious, humble, loving, and leaving no mark but a warm feeling. She will continue to inspire me to live a worthy life. To me, my Nanu will remain as my quiet North Star.