The Story of Two Kamalas — One is My ‘Ammumma’ and the Other is the Trailblazing Daughter of Shyamala Gopalan

Kamala was the name of my maternal grandmother. She moved on into another realm last year, in her 90s. A larger-than-life titan. We often forgot her name. She was simply “Ammumma’. She lived a large part of her life — in the same city as Kamala Harris’ mom – Madras, at another time. 

For a whole lot of us in my extended family and friends, her influence on our lives was huge. Today, the stories, of her life and ours in hers, permeate across oceans while the Kamala Harris campaign swooshes over our collective mindscape.

The city of my grandmother and Shyamala Gopalan Harris, mother of Kamala Harris was in Madras province during British rule. It became Madras City as part of a state when India got independence. It later turned into Chennai. My grandma Kamala’s Madras home which we all adored, had all the tropical flora staples common among homes built then — and the ubiquitous coconut tree.  

My Amazon window shopping today for coconut shell accessories  popped up something interesting before I could even finish keying `coconut tree earrings.’ That coconut tree quote where Kamala Harris was talking about what her mother said while pushing her daughters to dream big – it’s a crazy trend of poll products now.

Shyamala Gopalan moved to the U.S. at 19 and married the love of her life. My grandma Kamala, was a child bride when she got married to a widower 20 years older than her. He had kids too. Yes, people, child marriages were the norm then. Child marriages persist today, too. My grandma loved to narrate details of her own wedding as if it happened a few days before the retelling. 

The teen bride played the homemaker role thrust upon her with dedication. Imagine a kid trying to make sense of another city, language, people, and most of all her husband while negotiating a new role. The decades that followed saw her manage a teeming family, kitchen, guests, kids, their schedules, and all the madness involved. Her spouse, my grandpa, toiled away as a teacher, writer, and scholar and worked multiple jobs to support the family. Everything else she had to work through. And manage she did, through tears, triumphs, through other struggles – health and marital. With grit.

Her home, with its backyard well, jasmines, butterfly pea and hibiscus, jackfruit and almond trees, mango, henna, and custard apple for as long as she could, as a married youngster, mom to many kids, senior and in later years a widow. Yet she left this world, a dependent. She probably gave up on dreams if she had any, early on.

When I watch a smiling Kamala Harris at the DNC, the collective cheer from her family, the mass elation, and how a campaign on downslide sprang to life —  I have new-found awe for the word `dream.’ It’s okay to dream. And dream big. 

My grandmother Kamala’s worldview was traditional, but after my grandfather died, she dared and learned to live by herself in that Madras home for many years. Her daily chores and sleepless nights aside, if she laid her hands on books and newspapers, she would not let go. She kept up with news, and local and global affairs between her reciting religious prayers and running the house. 

She was ecstatic when her grandchildren or kids of peers achieved big in studies, jobs, and status – girls and boys. Like other women then though, there was praise for girls who kept their head down, stayed invisible, and put up with pathetic in-laws, toiled outside the home if they had jobs but dragged themselves to kitchens and crushed their ambitions for families. 

I grew up around such stories. Thankfully, the good girl, good bahu, good wife cliche has faced flak this past decade. Thank God for ambitious women in this world – they are the real changemakers. I would have loved for Hillary Clinton to make it to the Oval Office. I would love it for another woman to make it there. It so happens that the woman is Kamala.

My grandmom Kamala with all her woes, worries, and wisdom through flaws, was unsung like the millions of such Kamalas everywhere.  She deserved to be recognized beyond her family for not her sacrifices and maternal love as much as her dynamism, forthrightness, resilience, and discernment. She deserved a lot more than being popularly called our Ammumma. Or as a writer’s wife.

Shyamala Gopalan Harris had dared to pursue her dreams. She became a scientist. Through the campaign for Kamala Harris, her work in the area of cancer research is talked about at length now. Kamala Harris and her sister grew up in a different period from my grandma, but their mom raised her biracial kids with loads of love and taught them to dream. No wonder Kamala and Maya turned trailblazers. 

If my Ammumma Kamala’s folks had educated her and trained her to go after her own dreams, rather than support the dreams of family and extended family, the ensuing magic would have made family tales abuzz with amazement. No doubt about it. If the girls she birthed were all taught to chase ambitions outside of their kitchens, we would have different mom stories for memories. We kids indeed benefit from their cooking and homemaking. We would have thrived even more if they were achievers outside the home and aimed for the stars.   

It’s true that girls in my generation got educated and landed jobs too.  I wish we had more trailblazer mommas and grandmas who were less defined by household chores. At the moment, I, the brown girl, Madras-born, Bangalore-raised, Jersey-living, American citizenship hopeful who legally moved to the U.S. dances in my head when I see the heritage bit of Kamala Harris pop up so much through DNC speeches. 

Hey, it’s alright to be proud of where she comes from. Remember those thousands of desi memes and pointers claiming kinship to Kamala Harris when she became vice president? 

The world peace lover in me has dreams otherworldly. So my hopeful head is abuzz with questions.  

Will all of this din cascade to the likes of me getting that citizenship status post-November? Is that not superbly wishful? Will her election end wars? 

Come on, I want all wars gone. Do not call me silly. Do not tell me wars are a reality. I have utopian dreams like a borderless, hateless, warless and nature-abundant world. All the love for the K2-18b planet and oodles of hope for life on it (124 god-forsaken light years away) does not come anywhere close to wanting this planet to stay livable, loveable and safe. I need moms safe. I want mommy decisions not judged. 

When I send my kid off to school, I want not just her, but all the people around her safe. Even as she grows older I want her school and bus to be safe zones. And her potential universities. And workplaces. When these kids grow up and get those college degrees, it is mommy me who does not want them in debt. I want to be able to go to a hospital and not worry about the bills. Or get treated according to my race. It’s okay to want people on my planet to be healthy. 

I want girls to make their own decisions for their bodies. No one else must.

And election after election across my two home countries, my hopes like those of millions of mommies get crushed. I will brace for disappointment when these leaders err. Every leader does.

Years back, the video of then-Senator Kamala Harris making dosas with Mindy Kaling floored me. And now the Gaza statements make the peace-lover in me cry for something better. We can definitely have a conflict-free world. I wish our political leaders decided to. 

My desi peers are careful around uttering anything political. We think politics is for others. Our world has become like that — troll-crazy. The social media mob can rain troll arrows on us if we dare express anything political. Often censure comes from close family, friends, and acquaintances. And so we learn to carefully treat political views as unwanted guests at gatherings.

“I am a Democrat but I do not see us legal immigrants gaining much in this system,” a friend rues when I broach the subject. A Desi citizen pal’s peeve is against refugees from a certain country. She wants no illegal immigration ever anywhere in the world and is perplexed at my admiration for Kamala’s journey. “As a citizen…,” she goes. I feel pangs. Am on that long road to it. I loved and love where I was born, where I grew up and I love where I live. I yearn to do more and have the dignity of voice — a vote.  

My birth country saw a woman prime minister decades ago and so have neighboring countries in South Asia. It’s time for women leaders here in the U.S. It’s okay to want a woman on that presidential perch. We need women up there who make decisions on crucial matters — from conflict to healthcare to education to human rights. My Ammumma Kamala who braved through life, will like it. My hope is for Kamala, the daughter of Shyamala, to not just make it there, but do right by the world. I also hope my Ammumma Kamala smiles down at Kamala’s hopeful victory from where she is.

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M.B. Radhika (pen name) is the author of “Visa Wives.”She was a Bangalore-based journalist who covered gender, environment, politics, health, transportation and politics. She moved to the U.S. in 2011 and found her perspective widened. Today, she makes things, repurposes household items, crochets, and teaches crafts besides writing. She is a New Jersey-based mom of a school-going Taylor Swift-loving daughter. Spiritual learning is part of her daily life too.