Nostalgia about Grandma~
by George K Mate

Lucky people have old people living with them to warm up the home. And some, strong memories of their grandparents, but I, a nostalgia of how it was to steal food from the only grandparent that i ever met, and the naughty association etched to an undying fondness of those memories.
 
Childhood~
 
Our grandma lived on the first floor of what was among the only double storied house in the misunderstood town of Lamka in Manipur. Being physically unhealthy, in her mid-sixties, she would mostly be seen seated on her long dark sofa, and her food would be served on a table in front of that sofa which leaned against the wall of an entry way to the bedroom.
 
Sometimes, I and a sibling or a cousin would crawl on the wooden floor to gain entry under the sofa. Once there, between the sofa and the shiny wooden floor, we would wait for her to be served her hot steaming food. And when the bowl or plate and cup were laid on the table, we would strain our ears to hear grandma say her prayers. Not that we weren’t fed or we didn’t eat enough, as kids, somehow we were perpetually hungry. And grandma’s food was like the spread of the kings and queens, a something magic.
 
So when she muttered her prayer, with our stomach sliding smoothly on the polished floor we would crawl under her table, careful to avoid her feet, sometimes giggling. Then slowly, like trained cat-burglars, we would peep from under the table, heart beat throbbing. Her wrinkly peaceful face as she slowly said her prayer was the final assurance to commit our innocent crime. Being taught to say prayers before meals, we also did thank God for grandma’s food as we would gulp down small portions so as to not bring suspicion.
 
Porridge was not so much of a favorite like the boiled noodles were or the cup of milk or sometimes that creamy taste of Horlicks or a slice of cake. But whatever we got, we didn’t complain, we would just stuff in whatever providence laid before us.
 
Then after being content with that mischievous theft from our unsuspecting grandmother, we would crawl under the table and slither back under the sofa when her prayer would near the end. So by the time she uttered ‘amen,’ we would already be gone with some mouthful and content another hit and run was successful. And also by this time, the steaming food would be just perfect for her to eat. That would mean we must have burned our poor mouths on several occasions.
 
On that rainy summer morning when our grandmother died, we were told, ‘grandma has gone to heaven to be with grandpa.’ I don’t remember how sad I was, but I remember that many people came for her funeral.
 
 
Many years have passed, and every time I go and visit that old childhood place, I imagine the sight of little younger us, poised under the table, waiting to strike like hungry ninjas. I like to believe and imagine now, every time I see that spot how grandma always knew and prayed with a grin on her wrinkly face for those little thieves under her table; that we would grow up to be beautiful people in life that our parents would be proud of; that she always knew, and being a sweet soul let us get away with it.
 
Maybe that’s why her prayers were always so long, that she prayed for our souls too, while she generously shared her food.