Wednesday, May 14, 2025 | Today's Newsletter | Login
In remembrance: Amar Kaur Lehail
By Jessie Lehail,
Special to The Post
It has been over a year since my Bibi (paternal grandmother) died.
She was said to be 87, although it cannot be certain.
I will always remember my mom’s haunting cry when she received the news over the phone. My parents mourned for months. Despite my grandmother being half a world away in India there was an emptiness that could not be filled.
I cried in solitude, but mostly I kept it together. There was some solace in knowing Bibi Ji lived a long and full life.
Bibi was a very strong woman inside and out. She was particular, plain-spoken, down to earth and sharp. And she wasn’t afraid of living alone – she was fearlessly independent.
My grandfather died when my dad was a teenager, and Bibi raised four kids on her own. She was the sort of woman who was the epicenter of the village. She always knew the ‘goings on’ and people sought her wisdom.
Bibi drew strength from knowing her place in the world. She knew the importance of the bonds of family, and how to maintain relationships (she was a public relations maven in disguise).
Her health turned for the worse a few years ago. There was a good deal of effort made to get systems in place to enable her to continue living by herself, in her own home in Punjab, as independently as possible.
But there was no stabilization as her health deteriorated. We thought we would meet again, but it never panned out.
The last time I saw her alive was during her visit for my cousin’s wedding in 2003. Her health was in good condition and her mind was sharp as a tack. My parents pleaded with her to stay with us, cautioning her that meeting would become difficult as their own health diminished.
She was stubborn and then there was that rebellious streak. Her home was her home.
I would have been a different person if she had stayed with us. She had life skills that could not be accumulated through a classroom or through books.
During her last visit, the suspense would build as I looked forward to spending time with her. Knowing this, she probably took her time at unravelling her yarns.
Sensing my excitement, she would call me Kaato, (squirrel in Punjabi).
I would relish her stories, asking for more. I peppered her with questions. She would get annoyed. I forgave her brashness.
Things would be copacetic and the cycle would resume.
In some ways, I can trace my roots of community service and love for cooking to Bibi Ji.
In the past year, I have grappled with how to process her death and honour her. Bibi’s passing taught me there is no time to wait – to take giant leaps of faith; to put dreams into action. For years, I had wanted to merge my love for food with anything South Asian. I did nothing, until now.
I recently launched my own food blog, Indian Influence, where I create recipes (and tell the stories behind them) that yield delicious food, while displaying my enthusiasm for photography.
Thank you Bibi – Love Kaato.
To follow Jessie’s unfolding story, visit her blog at www.indianinfluence.ca.
Leave a comment
