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In a home, between the three generations of women, what could be a common language?

When I sit with my mother and grandmother around our dining table, sipping tea over biscuits and snacks, it is incomprehensibility that we share. Each of us cannot understand the other’s stories despite living under the same roof. We differ from each other. The difference is ruthless yet beautiful. We reach a point of being lost in translation. Yet,
sometimes, old age, as cruel as it is, can answer many of our questions.

The joint family of my maternal side was where I was raised; I grew up around women. The inter-generational sharing of anger, gossip and tantrums had loud noises and moments of happiness tied in. The conversations between the women who raised me mostly took place in the kitchen and around the dining table in the living room. My maternal grandmother, the stubborn woman I grew up watching, is inspirational yet at constant odds with her three children, all women.

In my childhood, I used........

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