A Journey to My Nani’s Village in India

A few years ago, I visited a village for a relative’s wedding, a lively affair filled with chatter and preparations. Amid the bustle, my cousin suggested, “We’re just sitting here—why not visit Nani’s house? It’s close by.” The idea sparked instant excitement, like planning a trip to your grandparents’ home in the countryside. For Western seniors, imagine driving to a rural family home, eager to see loved ones after years apart. I nodded eagerly, and we set off for Nani’s village, a journey that left my heart full and eyes misty.A Rainy Arrival at Nani’s HouseAs we drove, the sky turned moody, hinting at rain. Twenty minutes later, we reached Nani’s village, with light drizzle turning into a steady shower. We parked, hurried out, and dashed to her house to avoid getting soaked. Crossing the threshold, I saw an open courtyard, now wet and glistening from the rain. From inside, an elderly woman—my cousin’s Nani—walked slowly toward us, her face lighting up with a warm smile.
“Namaste, Nani ji,” my cousin greeted, and I bent to touch her feet, a sign of respect in India. We settled on two khatiyas (cots) in the courtyard, the rain pattering softly around us. Nani shuffled to the kitchen, returning with a plate of namkeen (savory snacks) and glasses of water, then went back for a jug. We felt bad—she was working hard for us in the cold, barefoot despite the damp chill. We urged her to sit, but her hospitality wouldn’t stop. For seniors, it’s like your grandma insisting on serving pie, even when you protest, her love poured into every gesture.A Quiet Life, Full of LoveNani had five daughters, all married and gone. I asked, “Where’s Nana ji?” She replied softly, “He’s at a gas agency opening two kilometers away.” Her voice trailed off, and I noticed her glance at the nearly empty namkeen plate. Without a word, she shuffled barefoot to the kitchen again, bringing more snacks. My heart sank, thinking of her alone in this quiet house, tending to herself and Nana with no one to help. At her age, daily chores must be tough, and what would happen in a few years? The thought was too heavy to linger on.Soon, Nana ji returned, his face beaming at the sight of us. The couple’s joy was infectious, like grandparents in the West thrilled by a surprise visit. The cold rain still fell, so Nana asked Nani for tea. Feeling guilty for adding to her work, my brother-in-law nudged my cousin to make the tea instead. Nani, ever the host, went to show her where the milk, sugar, and tea leaves were kept. We chatted with Nana, the rain drumming outside, and I couldn’t help but wonder how they managed daily life in their old age, with no young hands to help.A Village’s Changing TimesIn the past, villages were full of young lads who’d eagerly help elderly couples with chores. But times have changed. Boys as young as 17 or 18 now leave for cities, chasing better jobs, leaving behind kids and seniors. It’s like rural towns in the West, where youth move to urban hubs, and grandparents stay in quiet homes. The village felt emptier, its silence broken only by our visit. When my cousin brought the tea, we sipped and talked, warmth spreading in the chilly air. Then, Nana suddenly stood, fetched a bowl of kishmish (raisins), and offered it with pride, ensuring we felt welcomed. It reminded me of a grandparent in the West pulling out a tin of cookies to make guests feel at home.A Bittersweet FarewellAn hour passed, but we had to return to the wedding. Nana and Nani urged us to stay, but duty called. As we stepped outside, the rain had stopped, leaving a fresh, clean scent. We took photos—Nani and Nana in the middle, us around them, and one of just the two of them. When we showed them the picture, their faces lit up with the sweetest smiles, a moment so precious it’s hard to describe. For seniors, it’s like seeing your grandparents beam at a family photo, hearts full of love.As we said goodbye, Nani tried to slip some money into our hands—a tradition in North India where elders give guests a token of blessing. I laughed and refused, but she slyly tucked it into my pocket. As we climbed into the car, I glanced back. Their faces held a mix of joy and sadness—happy we came, sad we were leaving. Nani’s eyes glistened with tears, and as we drove away, I kept my hands folded in respect, unable to look away. The village faded, but their faces stayed with me.A Silence That LingersNani’s house had felt so quiet when we arrived, like a stillness that settles in empty homes. Our visit broke that silence, bringing laughter and chatter. But as we left, I knew it would return, wrapping their home again. Back in the city, I often think of rushing back to see them, even for a moment, to chase away that quiet. For Western elderly readers, it’s like longing to visit your childhood home or grandparents’ farm, craving the warmth of family. That rainy day in Nani’s village taught me how a short visit can light up lives, a lesson I hold dear.