The nostalgia of childhood is packed away in your grandparents' home

Back in school, between memorising complex English words and finishing the spaghetti pasta in my lunchbox in 20 seconds, one thing that came just as easily to me was my 15-day winter break plan. Sometimes the plan involved an elaborate vacation to a new city, but most of the time, it meant spending the break with my grandparents. And while the mosquito bites and constant dust made me somewhat reluctant to visit the house, the mythological stories, home-cooked food, chaos, and pure love pulled me right back—as if gravity were working in emotional ways, not just upwards.

The house was as Maharashtrian as they come—complete with a prayer room, a small garden by the veranda, wardrobes filled with cotton sarees and shirts, wooden furniture, cozy rooms, the lingering scent of talcum powder, a stack of newspapers in the living room, and a cot with a bedsheet so old it could be as much a part of the house as the grandparents themselves. The home left a lasting impression, one that would go on to shape the 23-year-old, somewhat-adult version of me.

My days here were, for lack of a better word, blissful. Unlike the chaos of city life, time seemed to stretch and move at its own unhurried pace. I’m still unsure if it was the place, the moment, or my mother’s watchful eyes that turned me into a morning person here. But a big reason was the irresistible aroma of samosas and poha wafting through the air—impossible to sleep through.

I’d jump out of bed to get ready, with my grandmother’s morning prayer chants as the soundtrack. Her unwavering faith in God and all things good defined her very essence. She was my person. I ate with her, slept beside her, talked to her, and even argued with her.

“I saw God in my sleep yesterday,” I blurted out one morning, still rubbing my eyes as I stood in the kitchen, surrounded by adults who were trying to make sense of my words. While everyone burst into hysterical laughter, my grandmother leaned in, genuinely curious, and wanted to know more. Later, I described the dream to her in vivid detail, feeling quite offended that the others hadn’t taken my “legitimate” dream seriously. “Maybe God loves you, and that’s what He came to tell you,” she said reassuringly. From behind her, another voice chimed in—my grandfather’s, ever the practical one. “We dream what we think about. Your grandmother told you a story about God, and that’s probably why you saw Him,” he said matter-of-factly, as he laid the samosas on a plate.

Nodding as if I were convinced, my grandma left the room, clearly disappointed. The moment she was gone, we dived straight into the samosas. Meanwhile, my grandfather, unfazed, started narrating how he’d just cracked a crossword puzzle in the paper.

Mornings like these were a regular occurrence. The breakfast table would be filled with giggles, chatter, and debates. The kitchen always smelled of delicious food, while the afternoons were quieter, with adults napping and kids eagerly waiting for the ice cream cart. At the first sound of its bell, we would rush out, coins in hand, ready to get what seemed like the purpose of my existence. 

My therapist once told me that much of who we are comes from our childhood—the good and the bad. The memories we store, the interactions we have, the observations we make, the habits we form and let go of, the love we receive—all of this becomes part of us. When she asked me about my most memorable childhood moments, apart from my fav doll and the beach days with my parents, the things that stood out the most were the house, the vacations, and my grandparents.

For instance, the first thing I’d do on Sundays was open the newspaper to see who had solved the crossword in the English section. Sure, I didn’t always understand it, but on the days I did, I’d immediately call my grandfather to share everything about it. In sixth grade, when asked to write about my fondest childhood memory, I wrote about the dream I had at six and the faith my grandmother had in my words. My favourite snack happens to be piping hot samosas, mostly because they remind me of those vacations. And even though all the saplings I plant seem to die, the flower garden my grandmother tended to is still exactly what I hope to imitate. When winter arrives, it is the quilt that my grandmother wove from old cotton sarees that is the most comforting. Or the naps I take on their cot that hit the hardest.

For the most part, I believed that the ugly personality traits we develop as children define the beginning of our adulthood—impatience, stubbornness, ego, defensiveness, insecurity, and an overwhelming need for validation. But I was wrong. Often, what shapes us are the small, often unnoticed traits and habits we inherit from old homes, people, and places—memories etched deep in our minds—that quietly influence and reflect who we’ve become. And if, by chance, you’re starting to forget, perhaps it’s time to take a trip back to your grandparents' house—if not in real, at least in your memories.

 

All images: Pexels.

 

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