Grandmothers and the elderly

Looking north from Westminster Bridge is the edifice that houses the world's famous clock, the Big Ben.

Historical buildings like this tell plenty of stories of the time when they were built - the way people appreciated art and how they influenced the architecture of the buildings. The first stones of the magnificent structures were laid primarily to fit a purpose and usually they were to crystalise the point in history of the greatness and strength of an empire, emperor or an era. For example, the pyramids.

Unfortunately, the greatness of people is hard to be represented by towering edifices. I say this for 3 reasons. One, buildings are dead, they can't communicate. Second, humans can touch lives in ways that buildings can't. Third, a concrete structure can be copied and duplicated to anywhere in the world e.g the Status of Liberty.

Which brings me to what I really want to talk about. People. Old people.

More specifically, my two grandmothers - paternal and maternal.

I was not as fortunate as my brother and elder cousins. I have never seen our grandfathers. However, all of us, including my younger cousins, were extremely fortunate to have both grandmothers in the family.

Recently I have been thinking a lot about the two of them. Probably because of my recent conversations with them.

They have aged. They have begun speaking slowly and their voices sounded frail. More sadly, they have started to forget things especially things which have been told a while ago.

What hasn't changed is their excitement talking to their grandchildren. What hasn't changed is their boring and repetitive questions of how and what we are doing at the point of conversation, in the same old fashion way as they were when we were 6 years old.

At 12 midnight, the Big Ben chimed. The strobe light followed by the sound of an ambulance blared pass. Someone's life's at stake. Big Ben will chime regardless, even if another soul is lost, just as time waits for no one. It's been doing that since day one the bell's been installed up there.

Time can be taken for granted easily. Even though the count of one second, minute or hour is the same wherever we live , time can be too much for one but also too little for someone else. But what makes this big difference is the things people do with time.

I have thought this through. Photographs crystallize the moment in time. What I realised is the fact that I have not taken many photographs with my grandmothers, or any if I could remember. Is it because old people look ugly in photos? Is it because I'd rather take photographs of new and beautiful things? Or is it because I have always taken for granted that they will always be around to take photographs with me?

Life's never been fair. I have not put photos of my grandmothers in my room. However, both my grandmothers have kept cuttings of me appearing in newspapers in the past few years.

My paternal grandmother would hide the cuttings in her secret hiding place where she would conveniently take out to show her children who are also my aunts and uncles. They would later tell me that (and that's how I know).

The maternal grandmother has done the same, displaying the cuttings at the back of the door of the wardrobe, where she would open for relatives and friends to see. They too would later tell me that.

Big Ben is older than anyone who is surviving today. It is 150 years old. By looking at the clock, one cannot tell of the scars that the world wars have inflicted onto it. Big Ben has witnessed the greatest atrocities as well as achievements that have taken place in this country. What remained the same 150 years ago and now is the chime.

My grandmothers have been through a lot of hardship. People at their times must have been cursed. They must have been the unluckiest to be born at a time when the world wars broke out, just as one finished. But did they have a choice? Could they choose of what to have or not have? Even if it didn't happen to my grandmothers, it would have been to some other people's.

The second war broke out at a time when they were in their 20s, a time when 20 year olds should be having the best times of their lives; instead they were out witnessing parents and friends being killed, food and water rationed, education being deprived and hoping to live for the next day.

Their trauma lived on. My grandmothers still live a frugal life. If only the banks took heed from this group of people few years ago, we would not have been in this financial crisis. Still, my grandmothers are better.

They have been war-trained. They loathe wasting things especially food. Even if we wouldn't have enough, my grandmothers would sacrifice their shares for our delight. Of course, those faces wouldn't show. At least not easily deciphered by our young and innocent minds then.

Every year, the world celebrates a day dedicated for fathers, mothers, teachers etc, but I don't believe in all of them. These dedicated days have become too commercialised and they artificially make the person feel special and happy for just one day. This is ridiculous.

Honouring someone is not an hour effort. It should not even be an effort. It is a feeling, just like love. You can't make an effort to love someone, can you? You either love or don't? Likewise, you can't have a timed love that is only valid for a day. It should be steadfast.

I know one day I will miss the "boring, repetitive and pointless conversation" when they are no longer with us.

Just a little story:

"Never mind if the bowl of noodle cost an extra ringgit. Ama will buy."

She digged in her plastic bag, counted the notes and paid the noodle seller. We went home to eat the noodles where Ama served it out in a bowl for me.

She watched on. I did not offer to share my food. She took out two slices of plain bread, peeled the crust off and joined me, while I enjoyed my bowl of noodles.

There she was looking contented with her meal. She whispered to herself, "Luckily it's just the crust, I can still eat the rest." Then she threw away the mouldy parts.