The Grandma Trap

 

 

 

 

Not so long ago, I dreaded visiting certain friends and relatives. No, it wasn’t because after asking umpteen times, “What will you have?”, they served watery tea, and were stingy with snacks, but because they were grandparents. And I knew the moment I would plonk on their sofa, I was snared - in The Album Trap. Well, all of you know the kind I am referring to here - the minute you settle down, and after the pleasantries are over, out comes The Album, or these days it is the phone or the iPad. And suddenly, mid sentence, you are interrupted and subjected to a slideshow of “Look at this, Chintu’s first tooth”, “Chintu’s first haircut”, and then very proudly, “Chintu’s first poop in the potty -isn't he the cutest”? Ugh! Do I even want to look at that? The polite me, not wanting to hurt the sentiments of a grandparent, nod silently, smile widely, feign interest and make all the right noises, while fuming on the inside, trying to keep calm by counting the number of triangles in the rug. Time and again, I have declared to my better half, rather self-righteously, “I will never ever inflict such trauma on my guests”. But fate, my dear readers, has a wicked sense of humour. Because… I became a grandmother. Suddenly, things became crystal clear. And I changed. My phone storage mysteriously filled up - not with screenshots of recipes that I will try in my free time or naughty memes I’ll share with my closest friends - but with photos of my grandchild. Shot from every imaginable angle, the pictures only increased the GB storage in the phone.

 

 

Sleeping. Gurgling. Looking at a light bulb as if he invented it. I had become the very creature I once scoffed at. Worse still, I was eager - desperate, even - to show these pictures to anyone who made the mistake of making eye contact. The milkman? “Just look at how cute he looks in this monkey cap!” The courier guy? “I know you’re in a rush, but wait till you see this video where he almost says ‘naani… or it could be ‘nahi’… but who cares?” My friends were polite. At first. They “awww’d” at the appropriate pics, nodded dutifully, and even faked interest in my grandchild’s sleeping schedule. Just like I had done, with other grandparents, not so long ago. But slowly, I noticed a change. Their visits became shorter. Some took to wearing sunglasses in the living room - perhaps in the hope that they’d escape the torture of being forcibly dragged into my digital gallery. Well, no one can make out if your eyes are opened or closed through the dark tinted lens, right?

 

One friend, and I kid you not, faked a phone call every time when I said, “Let me just show you his latest....” And then came the lowest point. My WhatsApp group - the one with my closest gang - muted me. “We love you, but we don’t need a daily Good Morning message followed by Jay’s yawn of the day,” read the blunt but honest intervention message from my bestie of 30 years. I was hurt. Deeply. But mostly shocked. How could they not find his drool charming? My daughter, who yo yo’s between “Aai, stop obsessing over him”, immediately followed by “Look at him, isn’t he the best?”, tried to reason with me. “Aai, you’ve turned into that aunty who used to bore us with endless photo albums at every conceivable occasion.” That stung. Because I was that aunty now. I pondered deeply, and tried to reform. Eventually, I patted my back as I cut down my sharing. From thirty photos a day to, umm, eighteen. Baby steps, right? But the urge was just too strong. I wanted to share his first sneeze. His accidental wink. That glorious moment when he picked up the remote and held it like a phone. Genius, I say. So, I created a WhatsApp group. Titled it, “The Jay Appreciation Society.” I added just a few people - people who had either shown genuine interest in his progress or were too polite to say no.

 

I later realised a few of my friends, in the group, just wanted to be civil. But guess what? One by one, they began exiting from the group. One message even said: “I’m alive but leaving this group for my sanity. Please don’t take it personally.” I did, though. Very personally. Finally, my better half- the man who once couldn’t tell the difference between an Instagram Story and a Facebook Post - staged a one-man intervention. “Look,” he said gently, “why don’t you make a private blog or photo diary? You can keep uploading everything there. That way, it’s safe, and we don’t lose our close circle of friends . Whosoever is interested in Jay will read your blog and look up his pictures.” I wasn’t very pleased with this, for then I wouldn’t be privy to their reactions. I so loved the ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aah’s from them. I know some of them faked it, but at that point of time, they were music to my ears. But eventually things became clear to me. It was a rare flash of wisdom. I decided to follow his advice.

 

Now, I update Jay’s Adventures - a private blog with pictures, captions, and stories. Only three followers - my daughter, her husband (I think he’s muted notifications), and me. But it brings me joy. And peace. And most importantly - I haven’t lost any friends since. Occasionally, I lapse. I still corner the gas cylinder guy with a video or two. But I’ve learnt to read the room. I no longer chase after guests brandishing my phone like a sword, promising them cuteness galore. Because as much as I adore my grandchild - and truly believe he’s the best thing to happen since air fryers - I now understand that not everyone needs a front-row seat to every burp and blink. Unless, of course, you ask. In which case, have I shown you the video where he claps all by himself? No? Just give me two seconds...