What Do We Really Inherit?

Naano, my maternal grandmother, used to collect teacups. Short ones. Round ones. Pretty, colourful, imperfect ones. Especially imperfect ones. Those received extra love from her. She’d even talk to them as if they were her friends.

My grandmother passed on a long time ago, but I still ask my aunties if any of those cups remain. I never felt the need to hold on to objects from my grandparents until recently, as I am surrounded by friends and acquaintances who have heirlooms - chairs, mugs, type-writers.

Years ago, after a sentimental walk down memory lane with a keepsakes box of random things I had collected over the years, I asked my dad if he had anything from his father, my Daada. Without missing a beat, my dad smiled and offered, "Puttar, ameer zameenan denday nay, saaday buzurghan nay naseeyatan dittiyan nay. The rich pass on land. Our elders passed on guidance."

My dad's words have lived with me for years.

It’s true. While there may not be property deeds or bank accounts, there is an inheritance far greater: baskets upon baskets of stories, teachings, reflections, songs. A legacy.

In my novel Gajarah, there is a chapter called Khoya. On a rooftop under the late afternoon winter sky, Daada Jaani, a grandfather gathers his grandkids for story time. As he tells the story, he also stirs milk till it condenses into khoya, and eventually transforms it into burfi. But it isn’t just dessert he is passing on. It is a lesson in patience, in transformation, in how something fragile and fluid can be held over the fire and turned into sweetness. Around that pot, the children learn not only how to cook but how to listen. How to listen about conflict. How conflict, too, can be stirred slowly, thickened, and sweetened with care until what once felt impossible becomes shareable. How several truths can coexist. How most times there is no perfect answer.

That too is inheritance. Inheritance is what we pass on - understanding, love, compassion, a will to listen, a basket of stories to bring people together as opposed to ripping them apart. And this is why stories matter.

And yes, every time I return to my ancestral home across the oceans, I find a moment to place my hand on the old brick walls, hoping to hear the echoes of words once spoken there when we'd gather around our elders. Because I know those echoes carry as much weight, if not more, as any land deed. They carry the inheritance of guidance. And if we choose to listen, truly choose to give space for their words to breathe in our beings, they can carry us toward a more peaceable world.

Find Gajarah here: Gajarah