At different stages of life, different parts of my great grandmother have come into my awareness.
It was all in her, always. I just get to see more of it when a particular context envelopes me.

The last few years—and especially the last few months—have been about resilience.
And when I think of resilience, I think of her.

She was as strong-willed a woman as a woman could get.
Educated in the University of Hard Knocks, but never cowed by it.
She took a few punches from life. And landed a few herself.

She was knocked down, more than once.
But from her, I learnt something I now value deeply—how to get up again.
To dust off. To start all over.

That takes grit. Just raw grit.
To stand when no one is in your corner.
To take on men. In a man’s world.
To fight without formal education, without the safety net of support.

She had little formal education.
But she made sure her grandkids got the best.
She argued her way through with academicians of the time—sharp, clear, and unrelenting.

Then there was her poise.
Being tough didn’t mean she let go of grace.

Her days had rhythm. Her habits had structure.
Her sarees had bold checks, bright patterns, and vivid colours.
I have clear memories of the comfort they offered.

Her hair was always in place.
Her routines, never rushed.
She wore her bright, bold tattoos as her second skin — not a style statement.

She lived with intention. Always.
“Face everything,” she used to say. And she did.

And then, her humanity.
Anyone passing by and pausing near the steps would hear it:
“Who is there?”
Followed quickly by, “Have you eaten?”

Didn’t matter who it was. If you hadn’t eaten, something would reach you.
Food, yes. But also warmth, without ceremony.

And of course, her stories.
She never performed them. She remembered them out loud.

I was far too young to understand most of them.
But I remember the tone. The pauses.
The look in her eyes. The smell of the room.
Those stories stayed. Somewhere in me, they still echo.

She’s been gone a long while.
But grit, poise, humanity, and story—that’s a strong mix.

Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of her.
In a routine. A question. A memory.
And I sit up straighter.

Today, I remember her.
It was on this day that she left.
But in many ways, she never did.

Some years ago, I wrote another piece about her — from a different time, with a different lens.
It has a few more anecdotes and details that some of you may enjoy.
If you’d like to read it, here it is:
What Would It Take To Live Life Tall?
She’s always had more stories than I’ve been able to tell.