Nani

 

Sarla Khanna, later Tandon, was born on 7 Jun 1937 in Katni, Madhya Pradesh. I knew her as Nani, and she passed away nearly 5 months ago on 10 Jan 2026 in Goregaon, Mumbai, in the room she had occupied since 2022, with the exception of a few days in hospital in 2024.

Nani had the privilege of being born to a family that believed in educating their girls. After showing early signs of academic brilliance, she was applied for admission to the haloed Lajjha Shankar Model High School in Jabalpur, which didn’t admit girls as a matter of policy. Nani’s father insisted on an evaluation, the results of which left the administration no choice but to admit her. So she wouldn’t be the only girl in a school full of boys, four fortunate other girls were also admitted to the school that year.

When Nani graduated high school, the furore was even more severe. She committed the cardinal sin of scoring a 100% in Hindi, hitherto deemed a mathematical impossibility. When enough academicians cried foul, the matter made its way to the state legislative assembly. After debate and deliberations, a prominent jurist was appointed to oversee a re-evaluation by a panel of three. Unsurprisingly, the result stood.

Nani loved music, and excelled at singing. During evening singing lessons at home in Jabalpur, Nani’s younger brothers played the fool (they still do), but Nani would swat them away and continue on undistracted. In her last few years, she often struggled to recognise close family members, but she could still always tell you the lyrics, the artist and the composer of some random song from the 70s. Two days before she passed, as my mom tried desperately to keep things cheerful, Nani managed to muster up what was needed to join my mom in a song.

Nani was an educator, in personality and in profession. When she was still in school, and her family gathered around the radio for a cricket match, she would lay out a sheet of paper, draw the layout of the pitch and mark the various positions for the benefit of the others. Nani received a B.Sc in Chemistry and an M.Sc in Physical Chemistry from the Robertson College in Jabalpur (now known as the New Govt Science College). Soon after, she joined the Mohanlal Hargobind  Das College of Science and Home Science, Jabalpur’s faculty of Chemistry. 

Nani married Nana on 21 Jun 1961 at Gwalior, Madhya Pradesh, where both had relatives. As was customary at the time, Nani quit her job and moved to Bharatpur, Rajasthan where Nana worked as a lecturer. After a visitor pointed out the absurdity of someone with Nani’s qualifications choosing to be a stay-at-home wife, Nani applied to a lecturership at the govt. college, where she was promptly accepted. Over the course of the next three decades, Nani graced numerous colleges across Rajashtan, as lecturer in Bharatpur, Udaipur and Bhilwara and later as HoD, vice principal and principal in Alwar and Kota. 

Nani retired as principal of Gori Devi Girls College, Alwar in 1995. She had looked forward to the celebration for months, and the life beyond for years. She had a vision of spending the golden years at leisure with Nana, taking long morning walks and traveling on a whim. In a cruel twist, Nana suffered a massive heart attack just days prior, and the next few years were marked by a slow, painful and imperfect recovery for Nana. 

Growing up I spent one half of each summer at Nani’s in Alwar. In that small town, you didn’t have to look far to see the impact of her and nana’s work as educators. Every time we went into town, whether to the vegetable mandi or the cloth market, we were interrupted by strangers coming up to Nana or Nani, falling to their feet out of respect, and thanking them for their role in educating them or some relative of theirs. 

By the time I got a hold of my bearings, Nani was already past her most magnificent. I knew her as the grandparent who inexplicably read 5 newspapers a day, national & local, Hindi and English. Potbellied from the hypo-thyroid, irritable from the hyper-tension, providing the detailed background on all the actors and singers who showed up on the TV in the evenings, treating matters of national and geopolitical import with a personal emotion. She teased her ageing husband, calling him Cassius for not being as much of a music nerd as she was. When he’d had enough, he would respond by abruptly breaking into some unabashedly romantic melody from their youth. She would blush before chastising him for misbehaving in front of the grandkids.

When she wasn’t busy commanding the household or marshalling the college, Nani and I developed a ‘partners in bullshit’ sort of relationship. She indulged my extensive repertoire of fart and toilet jokes. We made silly and irritating names for everyone in the family, and she would solemnly use only those in her conversations with everyone. Every afternoon we would pull my mom’s leg for wanting to nap for “just 10 minutes”. 

Nani was often direct, even blunt. In the 90s, after babysitting my sister and I for a week while our parents travelled, she told my mother upon her return, “your son’s entire universe revolves around just one thing - food”. Chubby little me turned red, but could not disagree. One summer my adolescence and Nani’s personality clashed particularly hard. Just as we were leaving back for Noida, she apologised to me tearfully. My mother was shocked, but also a little jealous – Nani was softer as a grandma than she’d allowed herself to be as a parent.

Nani’s cooking was the stuff of legend. Whenever mom wanted to cook something special for us, she would try to “do it the way Nani does.” Dad for his part, has expressed disappointment with every gatta curry other than Nani’s since 1986, apparently they all suck by comparison. 

In 2008, poor health and their children’s insistence caused Nana and Nani to move to Mumbai, where the rest of us lived by then. If I had to find a definitive marker, I would say that’s when old age truly began for them. Out of their element, and dependent on their children – I can’t imagine that sat easy for either personality. 

After a tough couple of years, and two long stints in hospital, nana passed away in 2011. With nana gone, Nani seemed to let go of her trademark zest for life. With each passing year Nani grew quieter, less able to move around, and less inclined to do just about anything. By the time covid came around, we were used to seeing Nani mostly in her bedroom. July 2022 found her in ICU with H1N1. I arrived on day 4 of her stint in ICU, and went directly to the hospital. The doctors told us she’d be gone by the weekend, but they were obviously unfamiliar with Nani. She fought through 30 days in the ICU, and lived for 4 years beyond their schedule. 

We love you Nani, and we miss you. I can’t say with honesty that I believe in any version of the afterlife, but I can tell you that you live on in our hearts. We will remember you and we will tell your story any chance we get. You continue to inspire us, and remind us that the pursuit of perfection is an end unto itself. 

You also remind us that a life lived fully will humble even the most brilliant and amazing. Those of us who are fortunate will live that full life, and with time and age, will eventually find that humility. 

Adulthood

(In case you don't read in Hindi but understand it, an English transliteration follows the text in Hindi)

सोचता हूँ,

हम दानव ही पैदा होते तो आसान रहता। 

पर ऐसी किस्मत कहाँ हमारी।  

हमें तो धीरे धीरे, मेहनत से 

असुरों के समाज में दाख़िला कराना पड़ा।  

एक एक घिनोने हादसे को जी कर, महसूस कर
उसका कड़वा रस पी पी कर  

तभी यह काम बना।  

अफ़सोस ने कई बार 

शरीर से प्राण को खोकला किया। 

हम हर बार यही सोच कर लौट आए

की "अब बस, और नहीं"।

फिर दिन, सप्ताह, महीने, कभी कबार तो साल 

निकल जाते बिन हादसे के।  

और तब यही समझ में आया हर बार - 

हमारे लिए राक्षस होने का विपरीत 

महान होना नहीं था।

नहीं, हमारे लिए तो राक्षस होने का विपरीत 

बस इंसान होना भी नहीं था।  

हमारे लिए तो राक्षस न होना 

था कुछ भी नहीं होना।  

फिर भी, अफ़सोस के मनहूस साये 

ने आज तक पीछा छोड़ा नहीं।  

एक रात भी चैन की नींद

सोने नहीं दी साले ने।  

कहता हूँ, 

हम दानव ही पैदा होते तो आसान रहता। 

---------

sochta hoon, hum danav hi paida hote toh aasaan rehta. par aisi kismat kahaan hamari. humein to dheere dheere, mehnat se asuron ke samaaj mein dakhila karaana pada. ek ek ghinone haadse ko jee kar, mahsoos kar uska kadava ras pi pi kar tabhi yeh kaam bana. afsos ne kayi baar shareer se praan ko khokla kiya. ham har baar yahi soch kar laut aaye ki "ab bas, aur nahin". phir din, saptaah, mahine, kabhi kabaar to saal nikal jaate bin haadse ke. aur tab yahi samajh mein aaya har baar - hamare liye raakshas hone ka vipreet mahaan hona nahin tha. nahin, hamaare lie to raakshas hone ka vipreet bas insaan hona bhi nahin tha. hamaare lie to raakshas na hona tha kuch bhi nahin hona. phir bhee, afsos ke manhoos saye ne aaj tak peecha chhoda nahin. ek raat bhi chain ki neend sone nahin di saale ne. kehta hoon, hum danav hi paida hote toh aasan rehta.

Day 27

Awoke with a fever, but contrary to my usual hypochondria, didn’t believe it was the virus. Vaguely remembered that I’d been fever dreaming of chicken curry. In the dream I was surrounded by a group of friends, can’t remember who, but they all seemed to be enjoying a batch of my aunt’s chicken curry, made famous by me in an interview of national importance published in ET-Panache or some such. I, as is usual, or at least was before the lockdown, was the only vegan in the group. Which meant I was relegated to sneakily ‘tasting’ a little every now and then from the others’ plates. Whoever these friends were, it seemed they were used to my fake vegan-ness, because even though me tasting the same thing from everyone’s plate did not go un-noticed by them, they chose to politely ignore this behavior.

At some other point in the dream, I seemed to be sitting alone in one part of the room, when someone came up to me. They gave me a knowing look, and quickly scooped a portion of the chicken curry onto my plate, before disappearing back to wherever everyone else was. Strangely, I can’t remember who this person giving me the ‘knowing look’ was, even though I remember the old school wooden furniture well enough to draw a picture of it. Based purely on the style of the move though, getting me my meat fix without calling out my bullshit publicly, I would hazard that it was Munaf. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve returned to the car from a meeting, and as soon as I settle in, Munaf picks up a little something and holds it out in my direction. It’s usually a chicken sandwich, or shawarma, or some other such everyday delicacy. Each time my first reaction is mild outrage, and my eyes widen as I veer to the verge of giving Munaf a harsh piece of my mind. Then a second passes, and that delicious something is still hovering inches from my nose, and I feel my shoulders slump, as I defeatedly accept the offer. No words exchanged, just an unspoken understanding. Maybe a mumbled “thanks Munaf” at most, after the first heavenly bite. So yeah, seems like the guy in the dream might have been Munaf, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.

Thinking of the dream made me smile as I sat up in bed, because if there’s one thing the lockdown had done, it had proven to me that I can be vegan. That’s right, 26 days, straight up, full vegan……except ghee, yeah I’m still doing ghee. The cynics will say, of course, that it won’t last, that Munaf and I will be back at it the moment the world restarts. Alright naysayer, far be it for me to insist on you believing in my resolve. But what we can agree has been truly, undeniably proven, is that I can be vegan for 26 days at a stretch if human society is in the throes of a pandemic, except for ghee of course. But you know what, why don’t we meet in about six months and then we’ll really talk. And if it turns out you’re right and I’ve completely fallen off the wagon by then, I may have to reschedule last minute because of a work thing that may come up.

The smiling made my face hurt though, a burning sensation at the top of these chubby cheeks. I touched my face in brazen violation of contemporary medical advice, found that it felt larger than usual and that the skin seemed to be stretching rather tight over that largesse. Swollen face, mild fever, what was up? Before a mirror could confirm anything, however, I caught sight of the window across from my bed, and froze. There was nothing outside the window! No artificial lake, no skyscrapers, no sheesha restaurant languishing in the loneliness of the day. Just white, like in a movie, once the lead character has died and gone to heaven, where a bearded old man gives them a wisely worded choice which we know will end with them coming back to life. Hold on, maybe this was also a dream! One of those dreams where you were dreaming in your dream and so when you wake up you’re still in a dream. There was only one way to find out – by trying to get out of bed and walking into the hall. If there’s one thing I know about my dreams, it is that even though I can achieve all kinds of crazy stuff in there (my two most recurrent dreams involve driving a car from the back seat and jumping down unscathed from a multi-storey building), I can never up and walk in a normal way from point A to point B, try as I may. Based on that, if this was a dream I could jump into my hall from a tall building, drive a car there while sitting in the back seat, even apparate there by sheer force of wanting to, but there was no way I’d be able to just get up and walk there.

So I tried getting out of bed, and while the move was overall a success, I was immediately dizzy. Mild fever, swollen face, and dizziness – either this was a pretty specific dream or I was coming down with something. Nothing I’d read listed dizziness as a symptom of Covid-19 though, so whatever.

I made it to the hall and then stepped onto the balcony to investigate the missing view. After the rolling fog outside slapped my swollen visage, I was quite convinced that this was really not a dream. I’d read on my online driving tutorial that the city experiences thick morning fog at the beginning of summer, but I’d never actually woken up early enough to see it in these 3 years. That I’d managed to catch it at 7 am on a day I had absolutely nowhere to be struck me as pretty hilarious.

The fog lost its charm after the customary Instagram story and “dude is this happening in your area as well?” messages. (It wasn’t, very local that fog). And so it was now just me and the day, for the 27^th time in a row. Cook three meals, be on about 30 calls to keep whatever little work is still possible going, check worldometer a few times, yoga at 8 pm, play some pandemic based PS4 games ironically and pass out when it feels like its getting late. Not the worst, to be honest, and it’s particularly easy to be thankful for a well supplied and so far uninfected 980 square feet to myself at a time like this. Still, would have been nice to have someone around – a sweetheart, or a friend, or a pet. Family would have been nice too, though if history really repeats itself we would have driven each other up the wall exactly 52 times in these 26 days. Fascinating philosophical question – aside from considerations of virus transmission, would you be locked up with family and driven up the wall regularly, or would you rather be locked up entirely on your own?

Mull on that, I have Zoom calls and culinary skill enhancements to get to.

Matter

What happens on this planet, the immensity of all that transpires here, what is it for? Life, and its wondrous circle, a mystery to each one of us even though we live it every day, humans, technology, is it all for nothing?

Imagine the Wankhede, packed with thirty thousand fans, twenty thousand of them screaming the same name. Now imagine that this will just blow away, no more than a puff of sand to the lightest gust in the history of the universe. The iPhone, the internet, space travel, the automobile, colour TV, ice cream, all of it, reduced to nothing, and the event without significance or record. What is it for then, what’s all of it for? To open a momentary window of colour in the all consuming sterility of the universe, only to see it shut in a blink?

The elements exploded, then fused, and cooled down, and something as impossible as life happened, and then happened again, and kept happening. Then life took on a life of its own, and then feelings and thoughts and minds, and consciousness. Amazing, incredible, unbelievable almost. And then we walk around, thinking of things, making things, making a world. For what? And we’re happy, and we’re sad and we’re worried that maybe we left the geyser on this morning, and we’re ecstatic, and we’re depressed, and we haven’t the slightest idea if we really want to watch that movie or if we’re just test tubes inside an incredibly advanced chemical experiment called Life: Batch 2, Sample 3.

Does it make a difference what we do, or if we do anything at all? Does the course of the universe’s history shift by an inch from its original path by the cause of our being, our civilization? Can, in any scenario, even an incredibly improbable one, our efforts amount to anything but naught? Is life really the wonder we make it out to be, or is that only a measure of the limits of this human mind?

They say having a child really changes your perspective on things – its hard to be cynical when you hold your baby and look into its eyes for the first time, and it’s a little bit like looking into a mirror, but not quite. The wonder of that moment is alchemy, that’s the claim. I don’t doubt the truth of this. What happens when the child starts to grow, however? What happens when he asks his own questions? What do you say, what do you think, when he wonders if this is nothing more than a computer program? What do you do when the cynicism circles back to the very mirror it disappeared from?

Do you push and shove and try to break out of the program in the hope of being “truly” alive, or do you say “meh, this is fun enough in itself” and submit to the existence of a glorified data string? Or, do you cling on to the belief that this is real, this has meaning, that we’re doing something here, even if we don’t quite know what it is, and that maybe the only programs are the ones we write. The belief that this accidental planet, and this accidental species, will thrive and spread, and build, and connect, and that it will, over a time as measured only at the scale of the universe, survive, and become as eternal as the firmament itself. And if you do choose the path of this belief, then perhaps you try to answer this - this monumental achievement, this eternal civilisation of civilisations, what would that be for?

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Postcard from Cambodia

The most beautiful things weren’t created by man. Sure, Angkor Wat looks, and I mean this in a very complimentary way, at times like an alien landscape and it’s unimaginable how a mere being as man created it, nine hundred years ago no less. But just 12 hours away by bus you realize that this giant of man’s work is dwarfed by the tiniest of God’s creations, thinks one of His creatures, as he sits gazing at the clearest of oceans on Long Beach, Koh Rong island. From the wind whistling out loud in the way it never does when there are more people listening, to the last grain of sand and the last tiny ant bothering my limited company on this heaven – all the inexplicable work of someone, something. All attributed to this Creator, Keeper, Giver. Fitting then that man’s finest creations, rendered by the God-Kings of Angkor themselves, are but a dedication to that real King.

Consider a shipwreck then, eras ago, and the sailor washed up on this beach, lucky to be alive, cursed to be nowhere scenario. What would his thoughts be, as he stumbled out of the surf? Relief, possibly disbelief that he was on land again. A resurgence of panic as he realizes he’s the only one here, and a frantic search for fresh water, which he would find not long after. Then the first night, with its fears and insecurities would play out its part in his drama. Food, sleep residence, all these would become a pattern before a fortnight was past, and then would begin the waiting. Not waiting as prisoners do, because they know there exists a time and date when it will all be over. And because prisoners don’t look out at the yard each morning and think, “Each time I look at this place I am filled anew with wonder. Each time I lay down and let the waves wash over me I am a new man, and each time I close my eyes and listen to the howling of the wind, I know that I will never, ever understand how such beauty can come to be.”

As the whiskers begin to cover most of his face and his skin acquires the colour of teak, I wonder then, would this unwitting recipient of this infinite bounty want to go back at all? I suppose he likely would, for human company, if nothing else. To be able to say something to someone and get a response. To have someone tell him he’s crazy when he starts chatting up a tree, as he is wont to do here. Or perhaps not......maybe he’s done with humans for good. Maybe human depravity was what got him here in the first place. The greedy captain, overloading the cog with cargo and slave stock, and the vile sailors after the wreck, stabbing each other for a spot on the raft. Still, if they came looking for him, I suppose he wouldn’t turn them away, even if just out of respect. Respect for his mates, or countrymen, or whatever unwritten bond exists between one man of the sea and another. Yes, he’d go if they came looking, I’m certain of that. If they were just sailing by though, as he sat contemplating the sunset, would he run down the hill and yell himself hoarse, and swim towards them, and throw coconuts, and splash up a whirlpool, and do whatever he could to catch on to this one thread that could give him back what he once thought was life? Or would he simply watch as opportunity sailed into the sunset, and let inaction dictate the course of things?

That’s really my question.