Aging Like Fine Wine

SINDHU AAJI ALWAYS opened the door with a smile and a list of questions. No matter how often this happened, I never felt prepared.

I was unaccustomed to it—to questions about my life, about my work, about me—even when they came from my husband’s octogenarian grandmother. “Aali ka?” she might say. (Have you come?) “Kuthe hoti?” (Where were you?) “Aaj office? Aaj budhwaar aahe na, ma kasa office?” (How did you go to office on a Wednesday?) “Pani?” (Some water?) “Tya diwshi te photo save nahi zala!” (That photograph did not get saved on my phone the other day!)

Can I just take a moment to breathe? I found myself thinking in response with each visit.

Sometimes, it felt like she was intruding on my personal space with her rapid-fire questions; at other times, her interrogations left me feeling desperate to get away, especially on days when we would visit her after I had experienced a particularly busy day at work or we had to sit in heavy traffic on the journey there. Those were the times when I needed quiet and space—or, at the very least, just light conversation.

One day, though, Aaji said something that gave me pause. She looked at me intently, but also, it seemed, with a kind of grace. “Nothing is worth losing your peace of mind over,” she said.

In that moment, it was like a knot had come undone. That observation made me listen. It invited me to notice the wall I had built around myself and notice Aaji’s smile. I had let Aaji in.

Conversation at Aaji’s often shifted to the kitchen.

Cooking brought me joy, but I had grown up seeing nontraditional domestic roles played by men and women in my family. When I spoke with Aaji about the kitchen, about traditional food preparations, about traditional kitchen utensils, it made me wonder if she was trying to nudge me into becoming the traditional wife. When I went straight to the kitchen after a day of work, she said, “Women invariably ensure the meal’s ready for the family.” I reacted with defiance. I told her that a lot of men also cook these days; that cooking and the kitchen are endless, thankless worlds; and that I am much more than someone who just cooks.

It took some years of growing up for me to see that she well understood the politics of labor distribution in the household. Cooking has historically been the way of keeping women confined to the kitchen, thereby minimizing their labor and keeping them from knowledge and income generation. Aaji knew that, and she would often argue that it is important for women to explore interests beyond cooking, whether it be for money generation or not. She agreed that women are so much more than just cooks for their households. She brought this nuance with love to cooking and to conversations about cooking, as she cooked with a sense of divine blissfulness, with a soul unshackled by the restraints of tradition.

Once the meal was ready, I helped Aaji lay dishes around the table and serve the food. Then came her questions: “Pani ghetla ka?” (Did you take water?) “Pele?” (Where are the glasses?)

Her eyes roam around the table, closely monitoring where the food moves between this or that guest, always watching to make sure there are as few leftovers as possible. “Vatoon ghya!” (Share and finish!)

Sometimes, she points—using a finger to add to the drama—at a certain far-off dish on the table with some food that still hadn’t been taken. “Yes,” she seems to be saying as she looks around the table before eyeing a particular guest. You are “it.”

In that moment, it was like a knot had come undone. That observation made me listen. It invited me to notice the wall I had built around myself and notice Aaji’s smile. I had let Aaji in.

One day, I took her shopping. She wanted a specific kind of laddoo (sweet), which wasn’t available in this shop. She tried to explain what she was looking for to the shopkeeper, and he was genuinely trying to help, but she could hardly hear him because she left her hearing aid at home, so a lot got lost in translation. The shopkeeper, equally enthusiastic, indulged her, directing her toward other sweets and Aaji replied, “No, no, no, no and no.”

“Bhaiyya mat dikhaao!” I said. (Brother, please don’t show us any more far-off cousins of what we originally wanted!)

By the time I turned around, she had already walked off to a hardware shop to find dishes to keep under potted plants, because yes, that’s where you get them!

And by the time I caught up to her, she was already preparing to go to another shop, like a five-year-old at a playground, running from one swing or slide to the other.

Which one of us is the elder, then, and which the truly young at heart?

She brought this nuance with love to cooking and to conversations about cooking, as she cooked with a sense of divine blissfulness, with a soul unshackled by the restraints of tradition.

Aaji was an early adopter of social media, engaging daily in liking and commenting in Marathi on Facebook and sending audio messages on WhatsApp. She still uses these platforms to share positive family news from across the world, pictures of long-lost cousins, reminders of birth and death anniversaries, and nuggets of family history. A couple of years ago, she learned Modi, the script used to write Marathi. She enthusiastically procured the textbooks and workbooks, self-learned the script, and then took an exam and received a certificate from a local educational organization. She teaches embroidery to the grandchildren of people in her housing complex, reads Marathi literature and shares it with others who might enjoy it, teaches Marathi prayers and their meanings to her social group of elders, plays carrom with them, offers words of wisdom to people who disclose their struggles, models folding clothes for the household help, and guides cooks to follow her recipes.

Watching Aaji broaden her interests in ways that not only advanced her own thriving but also that of her community inspired me to try new things, too—pursuing a doctoral program, baking sourdough, and becoming a mental health aide.

In and out of the kitchen, Aaji’s engagement is a form of “connective labor,” a term that Allison Pugh discusses in her book The Last Human Job: The Work of Connecting in a Disconnected World (2024)—invisible and often ignored labor that, in subtle ways, does the work of acknowledging people, showing them care and concern, and engaging with them. Aaji is known for making her children’s and grandchildren’s favorite dishes to mark their birthdays. She is a skilled crocheter and knitter of toys—turtles, elephants, and rabbits. She has knitted sweaters for great-grandchildren all around the world.

Aaji’s genuine interest and care for others have also left me wondering about what gets pushed back as one cares for others, such as one’s own self-care. I have often ignored my need to slow down, to take a moment to acknowledge my labor, and to love and care for myself. As I age, I realize the value of that self-care; I have slowly begun to care for myself, too. Seeing my distress at the world, Aaji encouraged me to consider doing things with a sense of joy and inner quietude. She exemplifies self-care—in the devotion with which she sets her daily lunch plate, in the way she gets specific things she loves, needs, and uses—a specific kind of face powder; a specific brand of hair oil; specific kinds of ribbons, threads, and buttons; and even a specific kind of sari.

I have learned from Aaji that aging offers many gifts—one of them being the luxury to widen one’s interests and to engage one’s body and mind in the delights of new learning.

Two months ago, Aaji broke her right hip bone, her second major fracture in 10 years. To manage her recovery, she was persuaded to wear a house gown, which she has always disliked. She wore it through most of her major recovery because it was needed, but even as she wore it, she continued to look for ways to keep wearing a sari. There are pre-stitched saris that are now available. These can be slipped on and look almost exactly as though one has draped a sari, except that the effort of draping is reduced to a snap. Aaji found a seamstress and got a couple of her own saris converted into these pre-stitched versions, and she wore those through the later part of her recovery. Aaji said to me, “Wearing a gown makes me feel like I am sick.” This self-awareness is a practice in well-being—in never losing oneself even as one ages.

While Aaji is still recovering from the fatigue and the pain, she is already back in action: engaging on social media, meeting with friends, knitting and crocheting. And she is teaching her caretaker to read and write. I, too, am learning to prevent letting injury or illness take over my whole life, to stay positive no matter what. I can see how that helps me heal.

As I age, I find myself to be more at peace with myself. I am able to let things go, and I am able to take a step back and reflect. I am inspired to age, even to celebrate it, thanks to Aaji. Like her, I seek to age with grace and, like her, to age in a way where I continuously challenge the status quo.