“Do you speak Tamil,” they ask, and then a few seconds later, disappointed: “Why not?” Whenever I travel to Chennai, India, I always get asked the same question. And because I can’t speak the language properly, I’m often ridiculed. It feels unfair. The message projected to young immigrant kids in the US and Britain is the opposite: assimilate. Don’t smell like curry. Be as light as possible. Change your name from Devi to Debbie, or from Nikita to Nikki. Be less Indian. Don’t speak with a foreign accent. Don’t show empathy for other immigrants. This is the way to “make it”. Just look at the south Asian politicians in the US and UK.
This autumn, I went to Chennai to see my nani (Hindi for grandmother) after a long stretch of no international travel during the pandemic. India was closed to non-citizens for more than 18 months as it tried to restrict travel and the importation of the virus. I often thought of my grandparents during these years: both in their late 80s but busy with days in the office, meeting friends for lunch, evening walks in the park or on the beach, and even the occasional visit to the gym to lift weights. The pandemic changed all this: their choice was between maintaining community and social integration with the knowledge that Covid-19 was probably a death sentence at their age, and staying alive but isolated, without the activities that brought them meaning and joy.
My grandfather, Nana, died during the pandemic in March 2021, and Nani grieved the loss of her life partner of 70 years alone, due to lockdown. I always thought I’d see him again, and that somehow we’d get to the other side of this global tragedy all in one family piece. Nana was a remarkable man: he spent his life in the Indian civil service, created a modern regulatory framework for the stock market and stood up to corruption with integrity and commitment to the people of India.
While overseeing a major pipeline project in government, Nana was offered a bribe of 34 crore (roughly £3.2m) by a company to make the deal happen with them. No one would have known, and this would have been unreal money to someone on an Indian public sector salary, living a minimal life. Nana didn’t flinch: he made sure this illegal bribe was documented formally and there were consequences for the company. He stood up to powerful politicians and, regardless of what others did, he acted according to his own values.
I often think about him when people criticise me for idealism and caring about people. I’ve been told that I don’t understand how the world works, that I’ll never receive an honorary title or birthday honour because I often speak truth to power, that I need to get “older” and less naive. Decade after decade goes by, and my values only become more steadfast. My grandfather lived past 90, and kept his optimism and humanity until the end. Perhaps we’re cut from the same cloth.
During my week with Nani, more than anything we talked. About what happens after death. All her siblings and most of her close friends have died. About her childhood and life. She was raised at a time when most girls didn’t finish primary school and were married young to raise children and cook and clean. Her father wanted a different life for her. After he spent three years studying law at Oxford, he returned to India focused on the importance of books and women’s education, and made sure she finished secondary school. Then university. Then a PhD. Then she wrote multiple books: about the Irish novelist and dramatist Samuel Beckett, Carnatic music and Indian mythology.
From a young age, Nani would tell me: “Education is the one thing that no one can take away from you.” It’s what her father told her, and this legacy was passed on to me. And I am grateful because my life – especially as a brown woman – wouldn’t be what it is now if I hadn’t studied hard and taken every opportunity to learn.
Nani wasn’t happy that I did a cover shoot for Grazia Pakistan: she said my photos were too revealing, and what sort of message was that to young women. I told her that we need young girls, especially in south Asia, to be aspiring to be professors and scientists, not just actors and models. And I saw this as an opportunity to break the stereotype of professors being men, or having to look or dress a certain way. She went quiet to reflect. We might disagree, but at least we can have a thoughtful conversation and see each other’s point of view.
During the pandemic we often heard that those aged over 60 were less valuable because of their age. I was asked on the BBC whether it really mattered if they were dying, and the former prime minister Boris Johnson allegedly expressed the view that Covid-19 was just “nature’s way of dealing with old people”. I found this shocking because in India, elders are valued for their wisdom, knowledge and experience. Nani lived through British rule, the partition of India and the second world war. We need people like her to help us remember the past, learn the lessons of peace and understand why international rules, especially over war, were created. Otherwise we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of history again and again.
Imagine if we had a government that valued elderly people as assets and pillars of wisdom, instead of talking about them as burdens on social care, social security and the healthcare system. Children are gifts, but so are those with decades of life behind them.
As it drew closer to the time for me to leave, Nani kept giving me things to take back. She didn’t want someone else to worry about cleaning out the flat after she died. “You can’t take things with you,” she laughed. “Objects are only objects.” I was grateful that she didn’t give me a hard time about my broken Tamil. Instead, she laughs while telling friends that her granddaughter can read Spanish and French but not our mother tongue. It’s comical to them that one of the world’s oldest languages didn’t survive a generation in the US.
I cried on the car ride to the airport, not knowing when I would see her again. It was more than that. With Nani, I don’t have to be useful, or perform, or meet certain expectations. She’s just happy to love me and be in my company. In this world, most of us have a few people who love us just for being us. To me, that’s the core of life and the essence of Christmas: time with loved ones. Forget expensive gifts and Instagram-showy decorations and trees.
Life felt a bit empty when I got home. I called Nani and asked what she was up to. She’s busy writing her next book: it’s about life philosophy and spirituality. I bet she finishes hers before I finish mine.
Prof Devi Sridhar is chair of global public health at the University of Edinburgh
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