Grandmothers are a precious asset to working parents. They do the cooking, take care of the children, keep the house clean, all with sweet and angelic dispositions. Yeah, right. If you  believe that, I have a scenic bridge over the Cooum that I’d like to sell you.

I categorize grandmothers in the following way. First, there are the “blamers”. Possibly the most predominant grouping in the gramma galaxy, these specimens are constantly on the lookout for objects to transfer blame to. They live in mortal dread of being found wanting in any aspect of domestic care. If they leave the gas stove on, and the water boils over, they chide the entire household for not noticing the gas smell earlier. If they leave something cooking in the kitchen, and it is burnt to cinders, that darn phonecall which kept her engaged for 30 minutes must be held responsible. If the sambar cooked in the morning gets spoilt by night time because she forgot to put it in the refrigerator, it’s the gossipy neighbor that distracted her from her daily routine. If she gets up late in the morning, it’s due to lack of sleep at night from the kids running around the house till 10 pm. If she takes a two-hour nap in the afternoon, well, she didn’t really; she was just resting her eyes, and now she’s being unfairly accused of indolence. Let her tell you, she has worked her fingers to the bone, yadda, yadda.

The “shamers” work a subtle variation on this strain. They try to shame you into doing their bidding. Their gambit is to induce feelings of guilt by exaggerating, or faking, their fragility. “I can hardly walk a few steps; can you fetch me my reading glasses so that I can glance over tonight’s Sabha programs, and pick the two or three I will madly dash to and from?” “I don’t have any appetite anymore; buy some Chinese takeout when you come home, ok? Maybe it’ll cure my indigestion” “I can hardly see; move my chair closer to the TV so that I can grade the hero’s abs and the heroine’s flabs” “I feel totally useless to you now, though I worked for you like a slave for 69 years. Fetch me some gin and tonic, will ya, darling?”… You get the idea. 

Then there are the “gamers”. This sub-sect is game for anything. They are the first to get ready and get in the car whether the family is going to a theme park or to the grocery store. They bubble over with enthusiasm at every outing. They hate being cooped up in the house. They’d rather roil in the hot sun at a cricket match than boil eggs at home. They’d rather watch the latest Bollywood bomb in a movie theater than read the Upanishads at home. They’d rather shop for hours in the mall (“Not for myself! I have no interest in this! I’m merely doing this for you”) than fry poori’s in home fires. They’d rather take bungee-jumping lessons than listen to Bhagavad Gita discourses.

The “tamers” are a special breed. They can quell a domestic disturbance with a glint of their eye-piece. Familial quarrels subside instantly in their presence; fraternal rumbles dissipate into hugs and kisses. The tamers are women of few words. Their iron will is evident in their body language; you cross them at your own peril. Even LIC wouldn’t insure your earthly frame were you to indulge in acts of even very civil disobedience against these matriarchs. They are a proud remnant of a society where age commanded respect, regardless of deeds to merit it. Longevity back in those days was such a significant achievement that it was sufficient grounds for canonization.

Beware the “beamers”. They have this vacant smile affixed to their faces, announcing to the world that they are beyond earthly provocations. The beam announces that they have lived a long-suffering life, and made the best of it. They have the taken the worst that the world could throw at them, and survived. They are at peace with themselves, with the world, with God. Nothing will perturb their equanimity. Not for them are the joys and sorrows of a fitful existence. They have seen it all. Been there, done that. Case closed. Well, don’t you believe it! That beatific beam is but a mask. Within churns a cauldron of emotions, most of them quite incendiary. With the “beamers”, watch the eyes; they are usually a dead give-away.

We all know “schemers”. All their words and actions have a nefarious purpose. They play their grandchildren against their parents, and swoop to pick up the spoils. All their compliments are back-handed, their brickbats hard to tell from their bouquets. They are Masters of the domestic universe, and they manipulate their wards as if they were puppets. Every “ooh” and “ahh” has a special meaning; every moan and groan conveys a hidden message. Every sigh is directed at someone. Words are used as weapons, silence is sparingly deployed as the nuclear option. The family unit, luckily, is sacrosanct to this species; much of their scheming is directed at thwarting external influences. It is their fiefdom, damn it, and they will defend it till their last theatrical heave of the well-upholstered chest.

The “dreamer” lives in the past. She is full of stories about how everything was so much better in her days, and how her husband stopped beating her at least 27 times. She yearns, like the Vice Chancellor of Anna University, for the days when girls were girls and wore saris (even to bed!). She misses the thrill of listening to radio dramas, even if she does watch 11 soap operas every weekday. She rises early, lunches early, naps early, dines early, and retires early, because that’s how life was lived in her day. She frequently slips into a tearful recollection of her salad days, when she was the toast of the town, the life of the party. Time clouds her vision, perhaps, but clearly her past is more precious to her than her present. We simply don’t measure up to the ghosts from her past.

The “screamer” is usually hard of hearing, and figures that if she cannot hear herself, neither can those in her vicinity. Hence, she sets her vocal volume control on “Ear-splitting”, and lets loose her torrents of the tongue. This kind likes to belt out instructions, using the high decibels as a whip. You want to get her work done before she can escalate the sound level to the supersonic range. Neighbors love her because she keeps them well-informed about daily happenings in your household merely be exercising her vocal chords. Telephone companies hate her because she renders their instruments irrelevant for long-distance communication. Everyone in the household eventually jacks up the volume in order to be heard above her din, until Pres. Bush declares that the noise pollution emanating from your house is the primary cause for global warming.

Tune in next week when we will undertake classification of grampas—rude, crude, lewd, prude, shrewd, dude with a ‘tude, et al.