I lost Papa in May 2004 and, soon afterwards, Mummy moved to Bangalore to live with us. Cheekoo was barely three years old and was thrilled to have a new roommate—and a 24x7 playmate.

Cheekoo played a remarkable role in helping Mummy through her period of intense grief and adjustment. Her infectious energy helped Mummy settle into her new home surprisingly quickly, and over the next twelve years, their bond only grew stronger.

As they spent more time together, I began noticing something that completely puzzled me. Mummy’s behaviour with Cheekoo was remarkably different from what I remembered of her behaviour with me at the same age.

As a mother, Mummy was a strict disciplinarian who expected nothing less than complete compliance with her rules. I, on the other hand, was a born rebel and non-conformist, so I frequently found myself at the receiving end of her discipline.

To my utter surprise, I now found Mummy correcting me whenever I disciplined Cheekoo.

I distinctly remember one occasion when she reprimanded me and insisted that I should “talk” to Cheekoo instead of “disciplining her unnecessarily”. Completely bewildered, I remember asking, “Who are you really… and what have you done with my mother?”

There was another incident that stayed with me. When Cheekoo was about six, Ravi and I enrolled her in her first summer camp. We felt that spending a few days away from home would help build her confidence and independence.

Mummy disagreed. She felt Cheekoo was still far too young.

A couple of days into the camp, while we were having our evening cup of tea, she raised the subject again.

Half-jokingly, I replied, “Why don’t you focus on your child and let me manage mine?”

That was when Mummy said something that has stayed with me ever since. She explained that her love as a grandmother was very different from her love as a mother.

Then, with complete honesty, she added that the children in question were also completely different, so naturally they needed different approaches.

Finally, laughing, she said something that made perfect sense only years later.

“As a grandmother, I carry no responsibility for how Cheekoo eventually turns out. That allows me to focus much more on affection than discipline.”

From that day onwards, Mummy became Cheekoo’s greatest protector.

Whenever I became upset with Cheekoo, she would immediately come to her rescue. Cheekoo quickly discovered the safest place in the house whenever she was in trouble—behind her Nani.

The two also became wonderful confidants. Many times, Mummy would patiently explain Cheekoo’s point of view to me before advising me to respond with understanding rather than anger.

Looking back today, I realise that I had misunderstood what I was witnessing.

Mummy had not become a different person. She was simply playing a different role.

As my mother, her responsibility was to prepare me for life. As Cheekoo’s grandmother, she had the freedom to simply enjoy the journey alongside her.

Ironically, this gentler version of my mother not only created a warm and secure environment for Cheekoo, but also helped me become a better parent.