Eat Something, You Look Thin

The immortal echo of every mother and grandmother

People say nothing lasts forever. Clearly, they’ve never met mothers. Or worse, grandmothers.

Mothers don’t really die — they simply reappear in upgraded versions, also known as grandmothers. It’s the only promotion in the world where the pay is zero, the job description is vague, but the influence multiplies beyond measure.

My own mother had this mysterious ability to be present in five places at once. She knew what I had done even before I did it — a kind of pre-crime detection system that could put the best security agencies to shame.

She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. She was simply a woman with a love larger than her own struggles. And yet, she left too soon, before life could crown her with the title of grandmother.

In fact, I began losing her at the age of eight. In those days, specialised hospitals were rare and far away, and she spent long stretches in one of them. And by the time I was ten, she was gone.

At that age, I didn’t understand much. I just knew she was “Mummy” — the one I could walk up to, make demands of, and somehow always walk away happy. I didn’t know her life stories: how she grew up, how she and her siblings survived after losing their parents early, or how she met my father in Calcutta and fell in love. Too young to ask, too naive to realise that one day, I’d desperately want the answers.

With her, there was never a shade of grey — only clear lines between right and wrong, spoken with quiet conviction and lived with quiet grace.

And yet, I often imagine how life would have been if she had lived to meet my daughter. I can almost see her — strict with me, impossibly soft with her granddaughter. Probably sneaking treats like a seasoned smuggler, undoing all the discipline I tried to enforce, and laughing while she did it. A parallel life I carry in my head, where my daughter would have known her grandmother’s lap and not just my stories.

But life had another plan. When my mother died, my grandmother stepped in to double up as both mother and grandmother. That meant I lived under a regime where love came bundled with constant surveillance.

I grew up in the city, but my grandmother’s home was in our ancestral village — a place where streams ran like veins through the land, and children seemed to be born knowing how to swim, climb trees, and catch fish with bare hands.

My cousin, just a year older than me, was one of those naturals. Fearless, amphibious, practically invincible — he could dive into streams, row little country boats, pluck the right fruits (while avoiding the poisonous ones), and generally move through village life as if he’d signed a lifetime contract with the elements.

And then there was me: the city boy who needed a towel-drying after every dip in the water, lest I collapse from some imagined cold. If I so much as sneezed, my grandmother was convinced I was on the verge of pneumonia. My cousin would emerge from the river dripping wet, shake his head twice like a dog, and walk away glowing with health. I, meanwhile, would be towel-attacked on the banks until my head looked polished. Clearly, I was the delicate one. Or perhaps she just loved me in a more… anxious way.

That’s the thing about grandmothers. Their love is never casual. It’s indulgent, yes, but also sharp-eyed, restless, and relentless. My mother had rules; my grandmother had radar. If my mother was the rulebook, my grandmother was the loophole — though a loophole with patrol guards posted at every corner.

And even when they are gone, they don’t quite go. Their memories are so vivid you half expect them to walk in with a plate of food and say, “Eat something, you look thin.” Of course, I sincerely hope my wife never reads this line. She’s been telling me for years that I’m overweight and always excessively hungry. Clearly, the women in my life have been divided into two camps: one that believed I was perennially underfed, and another that suspects I may singlehandedly cause a food shortage.

Humour aside, there is something almost unfair about the way mothers and grandmothers are wired. They give, and give, and then give some more. They absorb pain like sponges and return it as comfort. They carry our secrets, our failures, our triumphs, and our endless complaints, and somehow turn them into stories worth retelling.

If a mother’s love is the greatest in the world, how do you define the love of a grandmother? Maybe it’s not about greater or lesser — maybe it’s about depth and width. A mother’s love is deep, anchoring you like roots. A grandmother’s love is wide, spreading like branches that offer shade. Together, they make the tree under which families survive storms and celebrate life.

So yes, mothers and grandmothers — never shall you die. You live on in our laughter, in our arguments, in the nicknames you gave us, and in the unsolicited advice we pretend to ignore but secretly follow. Every time we quote you to our children, you sneak back into the room. Every time we remember a story you told, you take another breath.

In the end, immortality isn’t about statues or monuments. It’s about the echoes of your love that bounce around long after you’ve left the stage. And in that sense, mothers and grandmothers have already beaten death at its own game.

Never shall you die — not in our hearts, not in our kitchens, not in the little habits we carry forward. Because every time we sit down to eat, laugh, or scold our children with your exact words, you are right there with us. Alive. Kicking. And probably still telling us not to waste food on our plates.

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And speaking of love that never really leaves, one more echo is just around the corner: the launch of my memoir, You Told Me To Brave. Stay tuned—it carries a few memories, a few smiles, and one grandmother worth remembering.

Until then, may this story have stirred a smile—or a tear. If it did, share it with someone you care about. Perhaps it will bring back a grandmother’s voice, a mother’s touch, or a moment too precious to forget.