Palo Alto Weekly 37th Annual Short Story Contest
First Place Teen
Illustration by Mary Watanabe
Threaded Trunks
by Ananya Adya
It’s still there, lying in that old maple wood cupboard, once in a while stirring up all those memories from the past…
On rainy days, Nani loved working in the kitchen. Filling the house with the earthy smell of warm chai and sweet elaichi, Nani loved seeing our little cheeks refill with color as we scampered back into the house and grasped onto her cream-colored porcelain mugs with our cold, clammy hands.
Some days she and I would sit in the garden, and I would teach her the beauty of embroidery.
“I can’t even thread the needle!” Nani exclaimed, squinting her eyes and desperately trying to jab the string into the eye of the needle.
“Nani, you need to be patient! Try licking the end of the thread,” I laughed and watched as my poor grandma struggled over such a simple task.
“I have no patience!” She chuckled, eventually handing her needle to me so I could thread it for her.
“I thought all the grandmas were good at embroidery,” I said.
Nani peered through her enormous glasses. “Well, I’m not like the other grandmas then. And who said all grandmas had to be good at embroidery? Nonsense!”
I chuckled.
Whenever we finished our projects, hers never turned out to look quite right.
“Ummm…Nani, what is that?” I asked.
“An elephant, just like you taught me!” Nani gave a toothy smile, proudly holding up her cotton cloth.
“It looks more like a sad rat to me,” I giggled.
“You mean he?And he does not look like a rat! He’s a special elephant. He blows his trunk…differently,” she declared.
I giggled again.
Usually, after our little embroidery sessions, Nani would chase me back into the house and the two of us would make fresh aloo parathas.
“You know,” Nani said while stuffing her dough with the potato filling, “I don’t think embroidery is my expertise. I would rather get my hands all dirty with the fresh soil from the garden.” She beamed back at me and grinned.
“That’s wonderful, Nani. That’s wonderful,” I said, giving a light laugh.
Her eyes gleamed with joy. They always did when she talked about nature. I could tell that she always had a special connection with the natural world.
When Nani got sick, everything changed. Mama and Bapu quieted down, and Nani’s paralyzation seemed to have paralyzed the entire house.
“Mama, will Nani be ok?” I asked, careful to keep a gentle voice on such a fragile subject.
“I don’t know, beta. I just don’t,” Mama replied, slowly shaking her head.
Some days I would just sit with Nani, holding her soft hand and thinking. I missed her bell-like voice, her thunderous laugh, and mostly just…her. Life wasn’t the same with Nani not being able to talk or move properly.
“Nani,” I said one day, “look what I made.” I showed her a plate of freshly cooked aloo parathas smothered in buttery and shiny ghee. “It’s your favorite.” I examined her face to find anysign of emotion, but everything seemed to have just…disappeared. “I know you can’t eat them because you’re—” I gulped and stopped my sentence. Saying the word “paralyzed” was like entering a cold dark cave full of unknown mysteries. It was just too spine-chilling and heartbreaking to say. I sighed and carefully set the plate beside her.
“You know,” I said quietly, “I found some fresh carrots in the garden today.” I looked at her.
No movement.
I continued, “They were bright orange. They were as orange as those jack-o’-lanterns we carved for Halloween! My pumpkin’s face was so lopsided, don’t you remember?” I laughed as I recalled the look of orange lumps sitting outside our front porch. I looked at Nani again. No movement.
Just keep talking, just keep talking,I thought. I took a deep and shaky breath and closed my eyes. “Those carrots made me think about all those fluffy rabbits. They used to come when I was little, remember? I remember their little fur coats and long floppy ears. Oh, and they used to always hop around and wiggle their little noses.”
I peered over at Nani and saw what looked like the smallest twinkle gleaming in her eyes. Nani, if you’re there, please just say anything. Just do anything. Please.
Bapu slowly creaked open the door. “We have to take Nani to the hospital. The doctors want to check on her.”
I looked down, suddenly interested in my feet. I bit my lip and tried to ignore the blur in my vision and the lump forming in my throat. I managed to muster up a small smile and tried my hardest to answer Bapu in a steady voice, “Ok.”
Everything seemed to be falling apart. My grades dropped, my appetite reduced, and the amount of energy it took to roll out of bed seemed to increase every day. The only time I felt a slight surge of spirit returning to me was when I saw that little twinkle lingering in Nani’s eyes. I continued to tell her about all my garden stories and juicy fruit discoveries.
“That tomato I found was so red! It reminded me of the lipstick Bapu bought Mama when we went to Delhi that one summer.” The more I saw Nani’s eyes flicker with that lovely light, the more I looked forward to sitting with her in the lonely afternoons and talking to her.
Problems in school seemed to yank any of that small happiness away. I was constantly getting bullied for just wearing my shining bangles and bringing my freshly-made Indian food. They said they hated the smell. Said it smelled all rotten and crummy. Some nights I would cover my face with my soft blanket and quietly sob into the cotton sheets. I didn’t want to tell Mama or Bapu, but I told Nani. I told her everything.
“Today it was worse,” I said, slumping beside Nani. “They kept pointing their fat little fingers at me, saying my lehenga was ugly and hideous.” I glanced at Nani and my shoulders slouched. “I just hate when they make fun of me,” I sobbed quietly and rested my hands on my temple. “Nani, can you say anything?” I asked softly, pleading for even a small sign. I sighed and looked up. “Just say anything!” I yelled, suddenly angry and frustrated. “Why are you just sitting there and doing nothing, when your own granddaughter is here crying?” I coughed and sputtered, tears flying out everywhere. I ran out of the room, slammed the door, and sank to the ground. My hands shook as the salty tears rolled down my cheeks. I just sat there crying. I cried and cried.
Mama must have woken up. Bapu must have woken up. I didn’t care.
Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
When Nani finally started to heal, the house seemed to slowly come back from lurking in the shadows. The coldness of silence was gradually being replaced with the warmth of hope. I saw the color return to Mama’s face, and Bapu was back to humming his little tunes while placing the laundry on the clothing line outside. Hearing Nani speak again was simply wonderful. I felt so much peace, so much joy. It felt as if the calmness that seeped through my mind had illuminated my entire soul. I felt something powerful, something too difficult to express with words. I felt like warm honey and a bright yellow sun. I finally felt like myself again. Unfortunately, Nani passed away just a few weeks ago. A few days before her death, she left me something. A message that stays in my heart. A message that stays in my soul. A message that I will never forget.
“Come here, beta,” Nani softly called, signaling me to sit beside her. She was wearing her favorite burgundy saree, and her strong smell of sweet saffron lingered in the warm air. I rushed towards her and took her hand in mine. Her fragile olive-colored skin sagged as I noticed the wrinkles showing more and more veins. I gently rubbed my thumb over her hand. I liked to think of the soft wrinkles on her skin as pieces of art. Each one represented years of wisdom and experiences that my Nani had gone through. Just like those trees that spiral and twist through all those years of growth, the veins of my grandma symbolized the paths and adventures she had taken throughout her long life. I smiled. I loved thinking about it that way.
“How is it—” Nani coughed, her voice barely a whisper, “how is it at school? Are you still getting bullied?”
My smile disintegrated, and I looked down and fidgeted with my fingers. “Let me tell you something. Do you remember that elephant I embroidered?” Nani asked. “You mean rat?” I snorted, remembering the silly-looking creature she had created. “Do you remember how I held it up? I was so proud of it, even though it didn’t turn out how you had expected,” she gave a small laugh.
“You loved it,” I said, remembering the look of jubilation sparkling through her eyes. “Do you still have it?” Nani questioned, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Yeah, it’s in that old maple wood cupboard upstairs, sitting inside the glass drawer.” “Remember what I said about the elephant? How he likes to ‘blow his trunk differently?’ That’s what I want you to do. Blow your own trunk. Be who you want to be.” I stared at her. She was right. I needed to “blow my own trunk.” Peering into my grandma’s eyes, I stifled a cry. She understood me, she really did.
I don’t want to lose you, Nani.
“Do you understand, beta?” Nani asked.
I forced myself to make eye contact with her. “Yes, I understand, Nani.”
“Blow your own trunk,” she smiled, her eyes creasing with those little wrinkles. I smiled and wiped away my wet tears. “Blow your own trunk,” I whispered.
Author Bio
Ananya Adya is an upcoming freshman at Palo Alto High School. Ever since she was little, Ananya has always had a special connection to writing. She has not only enjoyed letting her imagination go wild while creating short stories but also found relaxation as she let her creative thoughts flow onto paper.
In her free time, she loves to ice skate, spend time in nature, make art, write stories and read. As Ananya journeys on to the next chapter in her high school life, she will continue to explore the wonderful and magical world of writing.
About “Threaded Trunks,” Ananya said, “The inspiration for my story was my own Nani (maternal grandmother). Although I never met my Nani, I learned a lot about her through the stories that my mother shared with me. Like the grandmother in my story, my Nani became half-paralyzed at some point in her life.
“Hearing about Nani’s experiences always sent a rush of energy and admiration through me. I wanted to express this respect through a story that showcased the life of a struggling grandmother who rose up from her hardships and opened the eyes of her granddaughter.
“I hope to spread a message about the importance of being comfortable in one’s own skin because that is the key to true happiness,” Ananya said.
Judge Comments
A strong story of key episodes in a girl’s relationship with her grandmother. Through well-wrought sensory details and compelling dialogue, this young writer builds an intimacy with the characters that engages the reader from beginning to end. Well done.
— Caryn Huberman Yacowitz, Marjorie Sayer and Kali Shiloh