As soon as I heard the can open, I ran from the bedroom to the kitchen. “Daadiji, did you open a Coke?” My Daadi could not stop laughing. She was always a good-humored woman with a beautiful smile and infectious laugh, but this was something else altogether. Doing her best to speak between laughs, she said, “I was just about to call you, and you were here before the can even finished opening.”
(Daadi ji – in Hindi, Daadi means paternal grandmother, and ji is an honorific used when showing respect to someone, especially an elder.)
There are people you know who seem too good to be true. They’re so nice, so incredibly caring, that you start wondering what the catch is. How can a person be so wonderful? My Daadi was one of those people. There was really no catch. There was endless warmth, boundless care, and a gentle soul that made you want to be a better person.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a loving, caring family. I know not everyone gets that privilege, and I feel grateful that I got that opportunity. It makes it hard to look at people in your family with any sort of objectivity. However, I can be somewhat realistic about the shortcomings of most people in my family. Just assume that when I use the word “family,” I mean extended family, as us Indians don’t really distinguish between nuclear and extended. I can recognize they have flaws, and they’re not perfect. However, as hard as I try, I simply cannot do it for my Daadi. She was as close to perfect as a person can get for me, and I cannot think of a single trait that points toward an imperfect human being.
She was loving and caring beyond belief. She had a very gentle way of speaking that drew you in, making you want to listen and be careful about the words you chose yourself. Even someone as loud and boisterous as me became more well-mannered around her. It wasn’t about disappointing her. It was about wanting to live up to the incredible standards she set and wanting to be better. She was an incredible listener and made you feel like you were the only person in the world when you spoke to her. You might go to her angry or sad about something, and you would leave feeling like the weight on your shoulders had lifted almost instantly. She would guide you gently, never pushing you to do anything but pulling you in to understand your problem better.
She preached patience, kindness, and understanding in our family. Family is, of course, a very loaded concept. In honor of Tolstoy, I like to joke that all happy families are alike, and the rest are Indian. It denotes bonds, but also complexity. There is a web of relationships between all of us that leads to feuding and bickering, even if subtly. My Daadi knew exactly how to navigate that web. She would listen to each aggrieved party, make sure they knew they were heard, and encourage them to understand the other person’s perspective. Empathy was her superpower. Her only goal was to ensure her family was understanding through the good times and bad, and she was good at making sure that was the case. She might have been a little lady, but she was one of the toughest people I knew. She made me understand that strength doesn’t come from an unbendable will, but the ability to take on the plight of others and still come out smiling.
She was so incredible that she was loved by all. I cannot tell you the number of people, including on my mother’s side, who say that she was the greatest person they ever knew. It’s simply remarkable. Anyone who came across her knew that she would leave a mark on them, and there’s a reason I have never heard a single person say anything negative about her. Seriously, it’s almost baffling. I don’t think I have ever seen that for another person I’ve ever come across in my life. It almost makes you wonder if she had any flaws at all, even if her only “sin” was pouring milk in her bowl before the cereal. This level of perfection is an unprecedented phenomenon that needs to be studied by scientists.
As I hinted at in the opening paragraph, she and I shared the most important bond two people can share: a love of Coca-Cola. Whenever one of us would open a can and the other was around, we would always share it with each other. This little ritual went back to my childhood and spanned decades and two continents. I miss those moments. I still remember many of those times, of course, but I wish I had taken slightly sharper mental photographs in those moments. They remind me of the bond we shared, of the little things that bring you joy in life and make you appreciate moments that look insignificant on the surface.
All her grandchildren used to sleep next to her growing up. I have one aunt and one uncle on my Dad’s side, and each of them and my Dad have two children. We would naturally sleep on either side of her. We adored her so much that she had to alternate which side her head faced every night, because every one of us wanted her facing our way. When four cousins were spending the night together, it became a civil war, with two people on each side wanting her to face their way. With a limited amount of time, everyone wanted her facing them. I remember once she showed rare frustration and said to us as we pleaded our cases, “I only have one head.” Respect is important, but love like that is rare.
My Naani (maternal grandmother) is still alive, and I feel very grateful for that. I’d like to explain why her presence is twice as important. My Naani and Daadi shared their maternal name: Suri. Indian last names, especially amongst Hindus, tell you a lot about a person and their family. They didn’t just share a last name. They shared a deep bond. They were very close friends, seizing every chance to spend time together and chat for hours. This phenomenon led my Mataji (Great-Grandmother) to frequently ask what the hens were clucking about on that day.
I loved seeing them together, especially once we left India. They both meant the world to me. I was very close to my Daadi, and remain very close to my Naani. I get emotional thinking back to their conversations in our little two-bedroom apartment in New Jersey growing up. I call them the Suri Sisters, and these sisters love like no one else can. My Daadi lives on in my Naani in many ways, doing the heavy lifting for their two incredible souls.
I miss my Daadi a lot. There was no one like her. It’s impossible. She truly was the most wonderful person I ever knew. She’s the person in my life who has passed that I think about most often. It was earth-shattering to lose her. I still remember the moment my Dad told me that she had left our lives. By the time I found out, which happened in the middle of the night in East Coast time in Canada, she had already been cremated. There was a level of finality there that absolutely broke my heart. My Daadiji was truly gone. I try to remember her as often as I can, and I try to honor her by being the best person I can be. I can never live up to the standard she set, because perfection isn’t something us mere mortals can achieve. That is left to the Daadijis of the world, the souls who make your life something extraordinary.
She lives on in me and in countless others, in our hearts and our minds and the very essence of our being. Generations to come will never forget her, and her impact will be eternal. We are all better people because we had her in our lives, and we will never forget it.
Royalty is not about the title you inherit because you were born to the right family. It is about the regal way you carry yourself, the elegance and empathy in every one of your words and actions. By that definition, my Daadiji was the ultimate Queen. She wore a crown throughout her incredible life, and she continues to wear it as she looks down upon us. She continues to watch over us and protect us in her unique and elegant style.
As it turns out, royalty really likes Coke.