The Postcard: A Grandma Supports Democracy

Manjuben propped herself up against a bolster on her twin bed. She rested her aching back on her two gnarled hands and hurriedly called out to her grandson as if time was running out on her. “Oh, Satu dikra, mari pit dukhe che. Ane bahar garami che. Postman avyo che .”

Satya sighed. “Slow down, Ba. You’re always saying things in threes. I wish you would speak in English.”

“Okay. Okay. You know my back is always hurting. And in this heat, it is worse. So I can’t get the letters that the postman just delivered.”

“Got it. Now which do you want first? Back massage? Air conditioning? Or the mail?”

Satya’s grandmother began saying something in Gujarati but quickly shifted to English, “It is too hot. Like home in Junagadh AC please, dikra .”

Satya said, “Ba, I know you only studied up to third grade, but your English is pretty good. When my friends come over today, you have to talk in English.” As he went to the hall to lower the thermostat, he shouted, “And call me by my proper name, not dikra. Okay?” He returned to the bedroom with a stainless-steel cup of iced water.

Ba said, “Okay, Satyajit. Back massage karo .”

This time Satya’s sigh sounded as if it was his aging body that was aching. Named after Satyajit Ray, he never liked his full first name. He found the legendary Bengali director’s films slow and depressing. But Satya knew that it was pointless to argue with his grandmother.  Satyajit was better than dikra . Without irony, he slipped into Gujarati and agreed to massage her wrinkled back. “ Tikh che. Main massage karu .”

Ba turned onto her stomach and straightened out her widow’s white sari. As she rolled over, Satya watched the bedsheet’s hand-block-printed peacocks do a kind of cottony dance, crinkling this way and that. He began kneading his grandmother’s back and whispered, “Back massage,” putting an emphasis on back , saying it just like Ba did. Bake . He smiled, knowing that Ba couldn’t hear him making fun of her accented English.

Satya wondered if someday in the future, Ivy League college acquaintances would mock his Southern accent. His thoughts turned to how his childhood friends’ grandmothers baked blueberry pies, chocolate cakes, and jam thumbprint cookies; Ba’s thumbprints were on mithais such as jalebis, pendas , and barfees . Then, as she guided his hands to the upper part of her back that gave her particular trouble, he thought about how poor his Gujarati was in comparison to Ba’s English.

Ten minutes passed before Ba was gently snoring. Satya looked up at the clock and hopped off the bed. His friends, Ruth and Winston, were coming over to help make posters for his and Ruth’s student government election. He was running for president of his high school, with Ruth as his VP. Winston, Ruth’s twin brother, captain of the football team, and Big Man on Campus was their campaign manager.

Satya ran out to the mailbox and hastily sorted the junk mail from the bills that his father insisted on paying by check. As he thought about how much easier it would be to filter spam email and make online payments, a postcard hidden between the Georgia Power utility bill and the Kroger grocery store flier fell on the grass.

Winston and Ruth pulled up in a battered Ford that their own grandmother used to tool around town. The twin brother hollered, “What’s up, Bro?” He jumped out of the jalopy and leaned in for a chest bump. “We’re gonna win big this fall. You and Ruth will roll, baby roll.”

Ruth watched the boys celebrate as if they had just won an overtime game. Before gathering her backpack and that of her brother’s from the car, she thought, Silly boys. Counting their chickens and our votes way too early. She remembered her English teacher explaining Oedipus’ excessive pride and made a mental note: We must check our hubris. Along with the backpacks, she lugged a large tote containing posters, some finished and many awaiting new ideas. Ever observant, she picked up the postcard and noticed that it was addressed to Ba. Lightly hugging Satya, Ruth handed him the card and said, “Manjuben Patel. That’s your Grandma isn’t it?”

Satya liked the sound of Grandma. Made him feel like a Smyrna Bro. “Yeah. My Grandma. Let’s go in and fire up our campaign posters. Got any good ideas?”

Waiting at the door was Ba. “Well come. Satyajit, please ask your friends to come in.”

Satya cringed at how his grandmother said “welcome” the way he had seen it printed on the back of colorful trucks in India. Winston put his hand out for a handshake, and Ruth put her hands together. Both said, “Namaste.”

Ba put her hands around Winston’s lone hand and pulled Ruth inside. “ Dikro, avo. ” Satya’s friends had come over often enough to know that Ba was telling all three kids to come inside. She continued, “I have sweets for you. Jalebi, penda , and barfee. Ek, be, tran. ”

Winston faked vomiting and winked at Satya. “Barf!”

Ruth shushed her brother and said, “Ba, I know you call your grandkids dikri and dikra . I suppose tran means three? Three sweets?” Her tongue touched the back of her teeth to make the “t” in tran sound like Ba’s dental pronunciation.

Before Ba could answer, her grandson shuffled her away to the kitchen. She asked if there was any mail, and he handed her the postcard. She saw the peacock on the pre-printed side and slowly read the words THEY SEE BLUE. Satya made to leave, but she grabbed him by the arm, returned the flipped over card, and asked who mailed it to her. Satya quickly scanned the content and said, “Looks like it’s from that columnist from the Indian magazine.” Seeing that Ba didn’t make the connection, he said, “You know, he wrote that mash-up book about a modern-day Mahatma Gandhi.”

“Mash-up?”

“You know. Mas- up is like chivda . Mix together a couple of things. First part of my name and last part of dialogue.”

“Satya ane logue? Why did he write to me?”

“Yeah, the Satyalogue author. He wants you to vote for Kamala Harris.”

“President Kamala. Saru lage che. Sounds good. What else does he say?”

He made an acrostic with some campaign slogans:

“Kamala counts on you.”

“America counts on you.”

“Make your vote count.”

“All voices must be heard.”

“Love our land and our people.”

“Align for Democracy.”

Ba said, “ Saru che .”

Satya said, “Yeah, sounds good.” He returned to the living room and saw Winston animatedly showing his sister his poster ideas. “I really like SATYA & RUTH! SO RIGHT! SMYRNA REJOICE.” Seeing his sister frown, he asked, “What about this one? SOLID RESULTS. VOTE for SATYA & RUTH.”

Before Ruth could respond, Satya said, “Let’s go with the second one.”

Arms folded, Ruth said, “Alliteration is old. We need something fresh.”

Ba came into the room with a platter full of chivda , mithai, and mango lassi . “I have some fresh snacks.” Hearing snacks pronounced as snakes , Winston hissed and punched Satya in the arm.

Ba ignored the boys, waved the postcard, and said, “And I have some fresh ideas”:

“Smyrna’s high school counts on you.”

“America’s future counts on you.”

“Truth must have Ruth.”

“Your vote matters.”

“Align with Ruth and Satya.”

Ruth and Winston gave Ba four thumbs up. Satya touched his grandmother’s feet and hugged her tightly.

Ba shook free of the hug, looked at the siblings, and said, “You can’t win without a twin.” Then, holding her grandson’s face between her weathered hands, she said, “ Tran means three. Just like good chivda has salted poha , flavorful spices, and variety of nuts, Satya, Ruth, and Winston are a recipe for victory. Sat-ya-jit. Truth always wins.”

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