My Grandmother
By Susie aged 15, name and address in the UK provided. Family's permission to publish is given
Can we allow ourselves to be controlled by others, wake up with nothing and give up?
I sat there, numb, deaf, a faint whisper reaching for my ears. I turned my head away. There was an old man in a suit standing, mumbling words I could not hear. His trembling hands were holding a sheet with words of a poem or a memoir, I do not remember. Although I did not hear the words he spoke, I felt his sorrow, not his own, but that which he lent to us. The candle flickered beside him, making his wrinkles seem like deep trenches. A tear rolled down my left cheek, I do not record why. I knew this old man had to do this extremely often and I was grateful to him. I wondered if he had a wife, perhaps he did but maybe she had died.
My sister reached for my pale hand that lay dead beside me. She soon along with my mother would have to get up and speak. I wondered again if we could allow ourselves to be controlled by others, wake up with nothing and give up? My grandmother did, so it must have been possible. The coffin arrived; it flickered in the candlelight as six middle-aged men lowered it on to a platform. It was my grandmother in those wooden walls. It seemed as if she had died years ago, but here she was. I tried to remember my old grandmother before she had become unwell.
We would sit on her sofa, in her stuffy but cosy room, with a faint scent of incense. As we spoke of fairy tales, believing them to be real, we read to each other. She had a low croaky Canadian voice but altogether, if you listened deeply, it was really soft, young and tender.
Those times were long ago. I moved away abroad and she blamed my mother for ‘taking away her angel’. While I was gone, she became lonely and was becoming worse mentally every day. When I visited her, it was not the same. I could not hear the soft tenderness of her voice, just a harsh cough that hurt my ears.
During those years that I was not there for her, she had been brainwashed and taken by a dreadful cult. She was persuaded to worship a fake guru called Sai Baba. After that fairy tales were not mentioned but irrelevant things with no meaning; I was soon bored of the visits. This new cult and his people had warned my grandmother away from her family, ‘Your family have left you, they do not care or love you anymore, come and join us.’ They turned my grandmother away from her family and friends. She was told to have no contact with us. I realised how evil she had become. My brother had tried desperately to persuade her to return to her family but she would have none of it. My mother begged for help from people in the Government but they did not care. They walked away.
I wrote a letter after she had died to be put into the coffin. I wrote of how she used to be when I was a small child. I decided to forgive her and remember only the good parts. My mother was affected greatly by the lack of her own mother’s love. My mother had once saved my grandmother’s life. When she recovered my mother was told that she had only been a messenger from Sai Baba. This of course was far from the truth; this guru claimed he could transform an elephant into a princess, similar to a fairy tale. That was probably one of the main reasons he inspired her, although she had never met him.
The wooden seats in the tiny church were cold but welcoming. I prayed that God would forgive my grandmother, that she was old and sick and did not realise her actions. The old man had stopped speaking and my mother began to say a poem. My throat tightened so much that it began to sting. I could tell my mother felt the same as she spoke in a low croak and she took small gasps of breath between each line. I felt as if my grandmother had died long ago, from the moment I moved away. Through those years I had mourned for her, it seemed as though she no longer wanted or loved us as a family. I had felt angry that she could treat us in that manner, but as I sat in the flower-scented church, I knew she was at peace. It was for the better she had not lived longer as she would have completely fallen into the arms of these men of fraud. She had allowed herself to be controlled by others, woken up with nothing and given up.
My grandmother was to be buried next to her husband, where she belonged, at peace. I began to feel better as I realised these men could no longer get to her. They had changed her and because she was frail and lonely she accepted it. Her acquaintances with these men lead to only seven people at her funeral. She was family and of our blood. This was our final goodbye. The cult had taken her money. They had lost interest. None of them attended her funeral or sent a single lonely flower.
That night after the funeral, I could not sleep. I turned slowly to face the wall. I could see the shades of darkness against the slice of light from the moon shadowed on the wall. I turned towards the ceiling and sat up slowly. I saw the misty reflections of a thick cloud that passed the threatening moon. A single tear rolled down my cheek. I staggered to the windowsill and drew back the curtain. I looked at the howling moon with deep thought. That was a final goodbye to my grandmother. I could now only visit her in my dreams or through fairy tales. I dream, I wonder, I wish but does it compare to reality?
My grandmother trusted these men with money and valuables. They corrupted her soul. These men had power and had changed my grandmother. It shows how a few people’s actions can completely transform someone. I always believed there is a choice in everything we do and that everything happens for a reason. But my grandmother was taken advantage of because she was poorly and lonely. Some might say, fairy tales in reality are not real; there is no mention of them that they only exist in the mind. But, for me, fairy tales are my link to my grandmother and I loved her deeply. I love my dreams; they keep me moving forward. Without them I would be still, because I can always believe there is a light at the end of the tunnel.