I dedicate this blog on Indian Arrival Day to the memory of my deceased grandmother, Amy Mohabir, whose parents were migrants to Jamaica from India and who spoke no English. The young Amy had to navigate the strange Land of Wood and Water, school and so much more, as an interpreter and an advocate for her parents. In similar trailblazing fashion, my grandmother departed Jamaica in the 1960’s and made a life in NYC for her and her children and their children. I am a product of this transition.
As a girl, my grandma was one of my greatest advocates. My first pair of heels, my first tennis racket, for example, were from my Grandmother, and I could go on. She was the only person who understood me enough to know what to say to get me to do anything – stop sucking my thumb is one example of when my parents and other family members tried all manner of strategies without success, and my grandmother made one statement to me in her characteristic soft non-threatening voice, and I was cured of the compulsion to suck my thumb.
In similar fashion, she shared a special bond with my dad. I remember how she waited to die until my father arrived at the hospital, the same way I believe, my dad waited to die until I appeared at his bedside via video call thanks to my sons, Jalil and Raja, this past January. I am sure they are having a blast in heaven or are reincarnated in the same space and having a grand time.
My parents, their parents the strength and determination of my forefathers; their passion and reserved spirit in the face of challenges, flow through my veins and my life is merely a fulfillment of the same. I love you Mum and Daddy.