Grandmother story for children
© Anand Vishnu Prakash, YourStoryClub.com
An old but hyperactive lady she was. My grandmother. Right from claiming to have fed me the first morsel of food, to making ridiculously cute excuses for accompanying me to sleepovers, she’s done it all. We’ve talked boyfriends, we’ve talked celebrities. I remember the glint in her eye whenever Dev Anand appeared on television, or John Lennon was played, and her excited claps of joy whenever granddad bought her a horrible, new Saree. She played cricket with my father, unmindful of her newly fractured bones. She read me Harry Potter, and seemingly enjoyed the books much more than I ever did. She prank-called people, pretending to be their spouse. I sometimes wonder if she was indeed 80 years old, or just an overgrown teenager.
She was my best friend. I would turn to her when I needed advice, when I was depressed, or when I was in trouble (which I always seemed to be in). I’m sure gran had a magic potion that made people feel better. She was the agony aunt of the house, and would magically find the solution to the most impossible problems. She made life simple for all of us.
Gran always narrated bed-time stories of her childhood. It wouldn’t be incorrect if I referred to her as a female Tom Sawyer. Her anecdotes always sent me to a magical world, where everyone was a Cinderella, or a Snow White, where everything had a happy ending. I felt happy, everything in the world seemed to be perfect when I was with her.
Finally, the day arrived. I was playing chess in the backyard, with gran. She obviously had a rather generous amount of grey matter in her brain. She never lost. Almost an hour into the game, she beckoned me to come closer. Running her hand through my hair, she kissed me on the forehead, smiling. And then, without a word, she left. She died playing her favourite game. She died in the arms of her favourite girl. She died a happy person.
I looked back at the chessboard. She had surrendered her king.
It was an obvious checkmate.
