W<\/span>e were walking on the two finger trail around Ulsoor Lake; she was telling me why squirrels had lines on their back. \u201cSquirrels are the only animals born from the tips of trees. Baby squirrels sprout at the tip of branches and slide down the tree bark on their backs. The bark scratches lines onto their backs. And that\u2019s why squirrels never leave their trees, their mothers.\u201d<\/p>\n

I only half understood my grandmother\u2019s explanations. I half believed them, I half loved her.<\/p>\n

We lived in an old Brahmin house that has more garden than house. \u00a0Our house was just four ground floor rooms placed next to each other like the squares of a Rubik\u2019s cube. Eraser sized windows, pencil sized window grills, no glass pane. The door was a slab of wooden butter that looked like it was melting because rats have been eating away its edges for the past thirty years. And it all used to be white, underneath all the rain damage and the yellowness of age. Grandma and I were the neighborhood light bulbs that emitted an odd light that attracted flies and strange questions. One frequently asked question was: how did my grandfather die? She\u2019d say he died on the inside, like a flower that shriveled and died because it swallowed its own honey. They\u2019d ask another question, vainly trying to understand us, \u201cBut what happened to your grandson\u2019s parents though?\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sure they\u2019re behind the curtains. We\u2019ve never bothered to check though.\u201d\u00a0 She answered like this each time. Some people would stop talking to us after this conversation while others grew fascinated, surrounding Grandma like the protective petals of a flower.<\/p>\n

I reasoned Grandma\u2019s behavior, telling myself that she probably talked like this because she was a painter, a job none of my friend\u2019s parents ever seemed to have. But I\u2019ve always wanted to know my grandmother beyond her words. For most people, their words were a bridge to their mind. My grandmother\u2019s words were a bridge to her paintings, the ones in which I couldn\u2019t make out circles and rectangles.<\/p>\n

Apart from canvas and paper paintings, Grandma painted on slabs of butter and called them butter paintings. She\u2019d mix food coloring powders into see-through liquid, not water.\u00a0 Different pools of color in separate small steel bowls. I would watch her trace color, the paintbrush touching the butter like it was in love. She would usually paint tree canopies or the sky over a sea or just swirls of circles. Once she was finished painting a slab, she\u2019d run to the kitchen and grab a blow torch. She\u2019d laugh excitedly and say, \u201cThis is the best part! You enjoy watching this don\u2019t you?\u201d I didn\u2019t enjoy watching it but I never admitted that to her. I could never look away from her face as she used the blow torch to melt the butter painting. It was done methodically. First the four corners were warmed, then a hole was melted into the center and by then you could see Grandma\u2019s face become happy in the sad way. We\u2019d watch the colors curve and bloom and fade into the butter. \u201cThis is like as if I was inside my brain, watching my thoughts,\u201d she\u2019d say as she dipped her little finger in the melted pool.\u00a0 \u201cHmm, curious,\u201d she\u2019d say as she licked the butter off her little finger.<\/p>\n

I had a rare glimpse into Grandma\u2019s mind when her old friend from Davengere came to stay with us for one night. He was unlike other old people in that he didn\u2019t stoop or smell of Ponds cream. We sat around our old dining table in the kitchen, eating some wobbly milk pie he\u2019d brought for us. Grandma and he ate it right out of the baking pan while they\u2019d given me a mushy slice in a steel bowl; this was Grandma\u2019s way of excluding me from their conversation. They both had their elbows on the table top, occasionally pointing their spoon at the other\u2019s face to emphasize a point. If I stayed quiet, I would be allowed to stay up till 9 pm and listen to their talk.<\/p>\n

Grandma held her chin in her palm as she spoke, \u201cSo, you\u2019re applying to teach at Srishti? I gave up years ago. The more I talked about paint brush angles, the less the kids learnt. But you\u2019ve always been a good teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n

He replied with a knowing smile, \u201cSome people are painters and some people are painting teachers. Anyway, this visit isn\u2019t about my teaching position at Srishti. It\u2019s about your gallery showcase in 3 days. Everyone\u2019s getting excited. How do you feel?\u201d<\/p>\n

Grandma put down her spoon and held her elbows in her hands as she said, \u201cHmm, I don\u2019t know. We\u2019ll see. I\u2019m a little nervous.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou say that all the time but I\u2019m sure it\u2019ll be a success. \u00a0More people are coming to see you, the odd little butterfly you are. Your paintings are a nice supplement to meeting you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s an odd compliment. I\u2019m not the person you remember me from 10 years ago. Time has changed me and my paint brush strokes,\u201d said Grandma.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s true but some people don\u2019t lose their inherent colors. I\u2019m sure deep down you\u2019re still the girl who ran after squirrel secrets. Remember how you used to steal bird nests and keep your earrings and pens in them, convinced they\u2019d give birth to eggs? Do you still have that bird nest?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, my mother burned it. She said I had one home, I didn\u2019t need another home.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019d never heard stories of Grandma as a girl. I interjected, \u201cGrandma, what are squirrel secrets?\u201d<\/p>\n

I knew I shouldn\u2019t have interrupted them as Grandma seemed to remember that I was there. She turned to me, \u201cYou\u2019ve finished your pie, let\u2019s get you to bed. It\u2019s late.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I want to know!\u201d<\/p>\n

But my bowl was already taken away and she was driving me to my room, her hands cupping my shoulders like it was a steering wheel.<\/p>\n

The next day, after our guest had left, she knew I was mad at her for excluding me last night. I was sitting in the garden, on our bed of weeds, digging holes by punching my fist into the soft earth. I\u2019d spit into each fist sized hole and cover the white froth with more earth. I was getting my fists and my white shirt dirty. Grandma let me get dirty like this and pull out weeds when I was mad at her. She\u2019d sit on our white swing set and draw sketches on the large sketch pad on her lap. Once I\u2019d run out of spit to fill the holes, I\u2019d stop and sit next to Grandma, watching her draw my face in different stages of a lie.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry about last night. I wanted to talk to my friend alone. You don\u2019t like it when I hover around when your friends are over to play.\u201d In a way, neither of us have accepted each other. But I, at least, tried to understand her; I said, \u201cBut you know all my friends, you talk to them. You don\u2019t want me around your friends or your paintings.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s because you\u2019d be bored. And you say you don\u2019t understand my paintings. And you touch the paint on the canvas. Your fingerprints dirty the painting.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stayed quiet because it was true. She continued, \u201cBut I\u2019ll tell you what a squirrel secret is. Let\u2019s go to Ulsoor again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan we get a pet squirrel for our garden?\u201d, I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly if we can catch one here!\u201d she said as her stooped back did a trotting run on the green mossy grass surrounding the Lake. Against the strips of teal water and tree canopies, Grandma looked like a painting that I could understand. And to someone looking at us from afar, I was a part of her painting too. We\u2019d make a nice watercolor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, we have to run if we\u2019re ever going to catch up with any squirrel.\u201d<\/p>\n

We ran after one that had a star shaped splotch on the back of its head. It was carrying something round. It stopped at the foot of a Banyan tree and dug a hole in the cone formed by two slithering roots. It stuck its head up a lot, nervously, as it buried its treasure. It looked up at the surrounding water one more anxious time before it ran away.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, what\u2019s a squirrel secret?\u201d I turned to my grandmother.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, to find out you have to dig up what that squirrel buried.\u201d<\/p>\n

I ran over to the spot between the huge roots and dug out a handful of earth.<\/p>\n

\u201cGrandma! The squirrel had buried a peanut, look!\u201d I ran over and opened my palm to her.<\/p>\n

She smiled and said, \u201cWell, you\u2019re not going to know the secret until you eat it.\u201d I stared at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut I don\u2019t want to eat the squirrel\u2019s food. It\u2019s going to come looking for it at dinner time. It\u2019ll be sad when it finds this gone.\u201d<\/p>\n

She laughed and said, \u201cBut don\u2019t you want to know what a secret tastes like? I can\u2019t explain things. You have to eat it, to understand.\u201d<\/p>\n

We were suddenly two different paintings. She was a portrait that hung in shadowy light and I was an abstract piece with clearly defined circles and rectangles.<\/p>\n

I said, \u201cNo, I don\u2019t want to know. I\u2019ll just put this back. I want to go back home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Maybe Grandma became a little scared of me after that squirrel day at Ulsoor because she let me eat packets of chips and she listened to me recite multiplication tables without interrupting me with her explanations of how numbers 1 and 2 were a married couple and how numbers 3 and 4 were best friends. I knew she was really trying when she let me attend her gallery showcase on Friday night. We even wore coordinated outfits to let other people know that we were related- she wore a white sari with thin gold leaves trimming the edges and I wore a white kurta with gold water waves trimming the bottom. When we entered the Srishti gallery, she put her arm around my shoulder as people streamed around her. People were wandering around almost like they were lost, lost in the understanding of Grandma\u2019s paintings. A small group crowded around Grandma, asking her questions. They started at the first painting hanging at the entrance; it was of an old man\u2019s wrinkles and his beard.<\/p>\n

They\u2019d ask her, \u201cThe lightness of this piece... how do you do it?\u201d \u00a0\u00a0Grandma would say, \u201cI wanted to bring out the heaviness of age; I don\u2019t understand how it became this light. I didn\u2019t expect it, really.\u201d<\/p>\n

As the evening went on, people asked more questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you understand the shadows in the lake?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere did you find the darkness for this tree?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow did you draw the veins for his skin?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat color is this lightness?\u201d<\/p>\n

Grandma would usually say, \u201cI don\u2019t know, I just felt like water. It really flowed.\u201d Or if she really wanted to answer a question, she\u2019d say, \u201cI wanted to know why people got lost so I painted lots of light. I\u2019m not sure I found out why though.\u201d<\/p>\n

So many questions about things Grandma couldn\u2019t understand. So many things I didn\u2019t understand about Grandma\u2019s answers but we just stood there together in our matching white outfits with gold trimming.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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