Fifteen years ago, on the 13th of July, I lost my grandmother. Her passing was not just the end of a chapter in our family, but the quiet closing of a book filled with the kind of practical wisdom that no think tank, behavioural economist or Whitehall adviser could bottle or replicate. And yet, if we could, I dare say we’d save billions in NHS budgets, social cohesion initiatives, and even foreign policy headaches.
Grandmothers-particularly the stoic, sari-wrapped kind who travelled continents by road—are the unseen spine of civil society. I once travelled with mine by car from the UK to India. Through Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan. With my grandmother. Imagine that today. She had no GPS, no TripAdvisor reviews. Just inner compass and moral conviction. And Khakhra. And Thepla.
Her toolkit for health? No lab coats or clinical trials required. Just: eat your greens, sleep at the right time, avoid fizzy drinks, drink water, work hard, don’t spend what you haven’t earned, donate, and do your duty. That last one-do your duty-was a commandment, not a suggestion. I remember my uncles being summoned in the dead of night to rescue a girl from an abusive arranged marriage somewhere in the Midlands, after a phone call from a concerned stranger. “Someone must act,” she said. So someone did.
Her spiritual bar was high, but not performative. I once told her I’d skipped morning puja because my mother had done it on my behalf. “If your mother eats,” she replied, “will your stomach be filled?” Wisdom sharper than any TED talk.
A visit to the Mandir with her was sacred. Not religious obligation, but our time. Like the walk through Indian alleyways where she made sure I was dipped in the Ganga—as much about spiritual hygiene as ritual. You were never just “brought up” in her presence. You were shaped, carved. No rough edges allowed.
Decorum, too, was drilled in with military precision. Hair combed, shirts tucked, no jeans with holes in them. When, as a teenager, I faxed a fiery letter to the editor of this very paper about the Hare Krishna campaign, CB Patel called her, not me. Her reaction: “What have you done? CB is coming to meet you. Will people laugh at us?” She was terrified not of being wrong, but of being undignified. I assured her, it was a good sign. And my first ever published writing anywhere – 18 books later – thank you too CB a family friend from before this paper.
Years later, when I spoke to a room of 200 British investors in Leeds, I made sure the jokes landed and that I spoke in Gujarati just for her, from the stage: “See, it’s good to make them laugh sometimes.” I wanted her to know: I commanded the arena. With decorum.
She also taught me what it means to win. As a boy, I once sobbed at midnight over a German assignment I couldn’t finish. She walked in, heard my whimpering, and said one thing: “I don’t care if you finish it—but show some courage.” I did. Three years later, I got the German prize in my final exams.
We speak so often of national values, community cohesion, character education. We hire consultants and commission reports. But perhaps we need to listen to our elders more and Zoom less. For all the algorithms and institutions trying to rebuild society, the glue we’re missing may simply be living in our homes, wearing a shawl, and quietly telling us to tuck in our shirts.
