The unshakable strength of grace

My father, Guru Saran's passing I had made peace with. His days were numbered, his days were precious, and he made each one count. But Nana -- we lost too soon, even at ninety-two. Papa we had lost at sixty-seven, but we had made our peace. Nana, I could not make peace. I had imagined him at a hundred, a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty, perennially classic, forever relevant. That's who Nana was, stemming from this Advaita Vedantic tradition--living with clarity of thought, action, and deed. And my mother, Sunita Saran, embodied that, exaggerated and condensed, an example of Vedantic living--unflappable, unbreakable, untethered to the madness of the universe, forever connected to the here and now.

My mother understood her duties, her responsibilities, her limitations, and her need to reinvent herself. She was educated, a privilege she honoured, a privilege she ensured others received. She did not expect from us accolades but wished for us to be noble in intention. She drove us toward good intentions, not good grades. She urged us to be inclusive, not exclusive. She asked us to think of the other, not just ourselves. And it is this knowledge, this wisdom, that made my mother different--from our school circle, our family circle. She never questioned our grades, never chased us to the top of the class, never touted our triumphs nor lamented our losses. Those were irrelevant benchmarks in my mother's world. She graced us with smiles, laughter, and presence of mind.

And I often wondered--what made my mother and my grandfather so noble of intention, so resolute of will? To their partners--my father, my grandmother, my nani--both incredible people. But my nani, Shanti Bhardwaj, the grandest of grand humans. We lost her too soon. She was in her eighties, but again, a woman who could have been a hundred, relevant, vital, magical. Nani and her younger sister, Sulakshna Lal, whom we called Gogo Aunty. From the entire brood, these two stood out.

And today, as I speak with my mother, we talk of the passage of Gogo Aunty in her nineties. A loss, I say. Because Gogo Aunty was the most elegant of humans. She could have been the Marilyn Monroe of her times. But she was the wife of an army officer, the mother of three, and she carried that life with grace, with elegance, with ease, with a quietude that spoke of strength, of fortitude.

When I was coming out to myself in America at twenty years old, I struggled with how to tell my parents. It was my grandmother, Nani, who was quiet, who was circumspect, who was shy in public, who called my sister and said to her, "I want to meet Suvir. He's gay." She wanted me to be comfortable in my skin, to be proud of who I am. She didn't want me to turn to drugs or substance abuse, lest I be depressed, lest I be worried and seek solace in self-destruction. She saw beyond what was imaginable, beyond the constraints of tradition, beyond what was expected of an Indian grandmother living in America, uprooted from her homeland, dependent on her children in a foreign world. And yet, she thought with broad vision, with a largeness of heart that encompassed love, understanding, and foresight.

And I asked Nani, "Nani, when did you know I was gay?"

She said, "We had gay people in our times, in history. We just didn't have that word. We called them famously single, confirmed bachelors, and light on the loafers."

They knew. They always knew. They simply had different ways of expressing it.

There were times when we talked about apple shares, stock markets, and investments, and my nani didn't have much to add. But she would sit quietly, listen intently, and then, at the end, say, "You taught me something today." She was always learning. And that, too, was a kind of strength -- the willingness to be open, to absorb, to evolve.

She found recipes in newspaper coupon sections, clipped them, tried them, and created dishes that no one would have imagined an Indian grandmother in her eighties making in San Francisco. Nani was as smart as she was old-fashioned.

And yet, among her siblings, another remains. Nani's sister, Champa Aunty, still lives. She, too, is in her nineties, and her journey, her strength, is entirely unique. I hope I get to enjoy her company forever. I want to write not one, but many columns about her, about the life she has lived, the wisdom she carries, the pillar of strength she continues to be for all of us. I honor her with this one, too, and I cannot wait to keep learning from her, to keep basking in the love and resilience she shares so generously. She is a blessing in my life, and I cherish every moment with her.

Silence, grace, elegance, beauty, and restraint are too often mistaken for simplicity, for naivety, for weakness. But there is an ocean of difference. Silence can be a shield, grace a weapon, elegance a statement, beauty a power, and restraint the ultimate strength.

Gogo Aunty and her husband, Manu Uncle, would visit my dadi, Kamla Bhatnagar, my father's mother. And they would arrive, and Uncle was like a peacock--regal, flamboyant, full of charm. And my grandmother, my dadi, was always excited about their visits. Gogo Aunty, ever poised, ever elegant, spoke sparingly but with absolute precision. Every word she uttered was measured and correct. She haunted me with her grace, her quiet fortitude. When she attended parties, lunches, dinners, occasions of importance, she was impeccable--her saris pristine, her dark glasses in place. She could have been a supermodel. Instead, she was a super-aunt, a super-mother, a super-relative. She was a Jackie Kennedy-Marilyn Monroe hybrid, yet rooted in the Indian tradition, carrying an elder's warmth, an elder's quiet dignity.

Tough acts to follow, but beautiful ones to have been part of. And how lucky I am to have had a grandmother, a grandaunt, and a grand-aunt who embodied all of these qualities--grace, grit, elegance, intelligence, and an unshakable, quiet strength. (ANI/Suvir Saran)

Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.