“Zara, hold your grandmother’s hand.
”I slowly walked up to my maternal grandmother’s hospice bed, where her eyes rested closed, her breathing steady and monitored by a machine. My three-year-old fingers curled around hers, turning her palm gently. On each fingernail was an unmistakable shade of red–a quiet sign of the beginning of the end.
Statistically, about 22.3% of Americans lose at least one of their grandparents by the age of five.
I lost both of mine before I even turned four.
I never really got to know them–at least, not in the way most people do. I know them through the memories my parents tell, stories of love and loss, and their life lessons and personalities are all passed down to me.
I’ll ask my dad, “What was Abu Jaan [my paternal grandfather] like?” or “Was he strict?” in hopes that each answer will bring me a little bit closer to him. I ask my mom the same about her mother, except more, “Did she love me?” and “What was her life like?”
Even though they aren’t physically here with me, I want to feel connected to them.
My story isn’t unique, but loss still feels the same no matter the age. I remember at age three, the same year my grandmother died, plopping myself down on the couch between my mother and her, being fascinated as she talked. I wonder if I would have been the same with my grandfather–if he would have ruffled my hair, smiled at me or given me a gentle kiss on the head.
My dad fervently claims that he would have loved me, and I believe so too.
My grandfather grew up in a modest family, moving to Karachi from Punjab in the late 1960s to find more opportunities. My dad told me his father was a very successful, family-oriented man, establishing several businesses with his siblings from the ground up, including everything from leather-making factories to real estate. Education was a priority for all six of my grandfather’s children, no matter what. That value passed down to my dad then through him and eventually, to me.
Just like him, I always try to do my best. When I put in my full effort, a part of me feels like I’m making my grandfather proud, even if it’s just by a tiny bit.
My grandfather also taught my dad to stay calm under pressure and to be patient rather than angry. My dad told me that my grandfather was rarely ever angry, and if he was, he never yelled. His years as a police officer and businessman helped him develop this habit–a lesson my dad and I try to live by.
My grandmother taught my mom to stand up for herself and to chase her dreams if it made her happy. My grandmother worked in interior design, decorating homes and painting furniture, but most importantly, she was creative, bold and full of life.
She was also an incredible cook. When my dad went to my mom’s parents’ house to get her hand in marriage, my grandmother made “the best halva he’s ever had”–a dish he said he wished he could have learned to cook from her. I personally like to think I have inherited my grandmother’s passion for baking, and that maybe, she would have liked what I make.
I sometimes imagine what my grandmother would be like today–if she would still wear that red nail polish, or if she would have a soft smile on her face. When I smell jasmine or notice heart shapes in random places, I think of her.
And then when I think of my grandfather, I realize I haven’t ever held his hand or made any memories with him beyond what my dad has told me. But his lessons still teach me today, and he is still a part of me even if he isn’t here anymore.
I never got to hold my grandfather’s hand, and I don’t remember my grandmother’s voice anymore, but in different ways, they’ve shaped who I am.
Today, they would be 74 and 88.
