While my father shaped my thinking, it was my grandmother who shaped my living.

This piece is a personal reflection on my grandmother’s influence — the woman who taught me lessons of grit, grace, and sustainability long before they became classroom ideals. Her life reminds me that true education begins with values lived, not lessons taught.

My grandmother was fondly referred to as Bayyu by one and all. Slightly stooping—perhaps due to several pregnancies and osteoporosis—she was nonetheless a woman who could hold the entire family together. This tough lady, small and frail at barely 4 feet 10 inches, had a presence that commanded love and respect.

I called her Mamama—mama’s mama.

Summer vacations were always spent at Kallimar House, and my memories of her there are vivid and deeply nostalgic. I mostly remember her in the kitchen, but every afternoon, after the day’s chores were done, she would sit in the front room, the ‘chavadi’. Out came her ‘padipan box’ — the one with betel nuts and betel leaves. Sitting beside my grandfather, she would slice the betel nut with a cutter, make paan for him, and one for herself.

It always amazed me how this frail woman had the strength to cut a betel nut with that heavy cutter! I doubt I could use it to cut anything other than a sheet of paper.

Mamama made the best ‘rumdan’ for breakfast—a kind of uttappam cooked on a slow fire with mustard seed seasoning. Even today, the taste lingers on my tongue. Perhaps it wasn’t just her culinary skill, but the unconditional love that went into every bite that made it so special.

There’s one story she loved to tell—later confirmed by my mother—about me getting lost in the backyard as a toddler. Kallimar House had a sprawling backyard that extended up a small hillock, filled with mango and jackfruit trees. Below were bimbul trees, banana plants, custard apples, and chikoos. A tiny stream ran along one side.

One day, “Baby Pramila” was nowhere to be found. Mamama, my mother, and my uncles searched frantically, calling out my name. My mother even feared I had fallen into the stream. Fortunately, those were simpler times—safe and unhurried. After much searching, they found me under the bimbul tree, collecting the small, sour fruits in my frock. Each time I bent down, the fruits would tumble out, and I’d start all over again—so absorbed that I didn’t hear their calls.

Looking back, I realise that even then, I had a tendency to stay with a task until it was done—a trait that has stayed with me all my life.

Mamama personified grit.

During Ganesh Chaturthi at Kallimar House, the entire household came alive. The grinding stones would start rolling in the wee hours of the morning, coconut graters worked tirelessly, and the kitchen filled with aromas of pathrado, appo, phodi, and karathe ambade gashi. The puja would be performed with great devotion. Afterward, the farmhands—who affectionately called her Dethi—would line up behind the house, waiting to be served. Only after feeding everyone did Mamama sit down to eat. I never once heard her say she was tired.

During World War II, when my grandfather’s cloth business folded, this seemingly frail woman became the family’s pillar of strength. Every summer when I visited, she would be busy making godu happolu (sweet papad), red and white papads, pickles, and shevai (vermicelli) to dry and store for the monsoon. She toiled for hours, day after day, ensuring the family was never without food or comfort.

Mamama was, in her quiet way, was an environmentalist long before the term was coined.

The washing area was located near the well, and the water used for washing clothes would be diverted to the coconut trees in the backyard. In this simple act, she conserved water and nourished the land. Cow dung was used to make cakes that later became manure for the plants—organic farming before it became fashionable!

Though she had studied only up to Grade 4, she was a lifelong learner. She taught herself to read Marathi books and made sure her children valued education. Once a week the main hall in the house would be filled with ladies from the neighbourhood who would listen to a book reading by her. We talk of book reading and book clubs today. But, my Mamama did it nearly a hundred years ago.

Of course, not all memories were idyllic. During monsoon, the path from the main house to the bathroom required using a kidanjal—a makeshift cover made from coconut leaves to shield one from the rain. I dreaded using it because tiny lizards often hid inside! Umbrellas weren’t common in those days.

Looking back, I see that my Mamama was far ahead of her time. She lived with quiet dignity, balancing responsibility, resilience, and care for the environment long before these became modern ideals. Her life was a living lesson in sustainability, simplicity, and selflessness.

She never preached—she simply lived her values. And in doing so, she left behind more than memories. She left a legacy.

Even today, when I speak of grit, sustainability, or lifelong learning, I realise that the seeds of those ideas were sown long ago at Kallimar House, by a woman everyone called Bayyu—and I proudly called Mamama.

Only much later did I realise that what I now speak of as grit, sustainability, and lifelong learning were not ideas I acquired from books or institutions. They were values I absorbed quietly, watching my Mamama live her life. She did not teach through instruction, but through example — and those lessons stayed.