Anyone on Facebook knows that babies are born all the time. Pictures are put up and everybody makes appropriate appreciative comments.
But not everyday is a great-great grandmother born.
I had the privilege of knowing my great-grandfather, who lived to be a 105. His amazing life spanned from 1895 to 2000. He supported Gandhi during the freedom struggle and stopped wearing leather slippers, choosing instead to go barefoot. This, for me, was particularly incredible because he was a lawyer in Madurai, so he walked those scorching roads day after day barefoot.
When I knew him, he was a slightly deaf old man who used to watch cricket with commentary at so low a volume that it grated. I admired the fact that someone so old could actually live, but did not quite comprehend why everyone was thunderstruck at a 103-year-old-man climbing the gate to pluck flowers for his daily puja.
My great-grandmother is still alive. I don’t really know how old she is, but I know her as a youngish great-grandmother, who played badminton with us every summer. She ran with us in her chappals when we went to the park, but slowly stopped playing badminton. As years went by, we stopped playing too. She shrank a bit, grew a bit deaf, and became less quick on her feet.
A few days ago, my cousin and his wife had a baby.
Some people believe that when five generations come together, the first generation ascends the golden steps of heaven.
I don’t know about that, but I am still amazed that I have a great-grandmother who is now a great-great-grandmother.
Not even five feet tall, she’s pretty small to be great-great. Yet, great-great she is!