Grandmother – you came to me in a dream like a black and white photo. You were young and balanced a frilly parasol on your slim frame. You wore the three white smears of wedlock on your forehead. The wreath that would later join you to my grandfather hung precariously from one finger. You beamed proudly in your long white dress, a smiling bride-to-be. But – then, dropping the holy circle from your hand, you hid your face behind your umbrella as you wiped away an errant tear.
Ever conscious of causing wrinkles in your wedding dress, you smoothed the sides of your gown as you knelt down, hiding your face behind the parasol. It became the short pedestal on which you and my grandfather rested your praying hands. Both of you wore that jasmine wreath around your heads, connected by the rope that would bind you to each other. With a shaky hand, you fixed your short curled hair.
Your mother was a princess of the north. His father was the closest advisor to the king, following a centuries-old succession of the oldest sons in the family. When the king poured the holy water on your hands, from a large shell with platinum ornamentation, everyone bowed their heads to the ground in respect. The first king of Thailand had named the family you now belonged to. The name means “long reaching good fortune”. You were breathing hard, nervous, your face a solemn rock.
Grandmother. I want to know if the last years of life provided you with the solace you lacked in life. I remember looking at your perplexed face, wondering whether you may have been happier not remembering your life. You were a bitter, scowling woman when I was a child. When you no longer remembered any of us, you beamed. You held my brother’s first-born son, instinctively clutching him to your self, and looking at him in wonder. You looked at the baby, looked around the room, and back at your great-grandson, your eyes as wide in awe as his.
Not long before your last child was born, your husband began keeping several mistresses. He squandered his fortune, as well as yours, on buying them houses and cars. The weight of your royal pride, and the responsibility of keeping up appearances for your husband – the younger brother of the of the king’s personal advisor – kept your mouth firmly clasped. It could not be the role of any woman to question her husband’s actions. It was your duty to support, in silence, your husband’s decisions. My mother’s first husband had a similar belief in patriarchy, but nobody said anything when she walked away. All but one of your four daughters left their first husbands. The oldest never got remarried. The sisters are known to their generation as strong-willed women.
You gave the engagement rings of your own design to my mother to keep. They are made of the finest strands of platinum, and she promised me that I could use them when I am ready. The strands weave around each other like the Milky Way, studded with a hundred fine diamonds. As the years of your unhappy marriage passed, you comforted yourself creating hundreds of necklaces, brooches, rings, bracelets, now treasured by your fourteen granddaughters.
The family whispered of your reclusive nature, and the anger of your middle age. My brother lived in your care for several years, and they say that is why he has never been able to become gentle. Two cousins lived with you almost all their lives, and that is why – they say – that they were never married. My half-American cousin dug a hole into your life and called you a sick, twisted woman, torturing yourself by keeping yourself in a cell of your own creation.
Yes, grandmother, you were cruel, even to me, the very youngest of your grandchildren. But you always stayed up nights to make sure the freezer was well stocked with custard-apple coconut ice cream. You scolded me for being disrespectful, but then handed my mother a 500 baht note to spend on me.
During the final five years of silence, when your husband’s body had degenerated, and his children to longer allowed him beer, you had your revenge. Your worries fell away from you, one at a time, with every passing day. First, seeing your children and grandchildren much older than you last remembered them confused you. Then, you became childishly elated at any person you could remember. You smiled when your nursemaid tickled you, and enjoyed the simple joys of a healthy body.
Your husband retained all his senses, and witnessed the plague of his own body. He alone bears the burden of his expensive infidelity. Where he once would have silenced you, he now sees you happily silent. He has been sitting beside your quiet smile for the past five years in the meager house his dwindling funds and the family can afford him. He cries for sweets, for beer, and his nursemaid sternly shakes her head.
Grandmother – you have given to me until your final morning. You passed away suddenly in the shower, smiling at the flow of water around your body. You collapsed into the arms of the nurse, your spirit leaving you in an instant. At that moment, I was swinging my body from the rail of a balcony to a rooftop. Thank-you for catching me then.
I didn’t cry when the monks chanted for your safe journey into the next life. I didn’t cry as I threw the cane lily onto the flames. They eluded me still as your urn sunk into the Chao-Phraya River.
This is why: In that black and white dream, you took my hand tenderly, and told me not to.
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