Dear Dadi Ba,

Part of me hopes you never see this. If you do, I'm sure you'll chastise me for embarrassing you, and you'll probably try to give me a stern look that will fall apart as I look closer into the twinkle in your eye and the turning corners of your mouth that are itching to smile.

Dadi Ba, you have a really nice smile. Yours, without a doubt, outshines mine every time I surprise selfie you on Snapchat, but I wonder why you never let your smile shine when we take a proper, posed photo; it seems to be that only our candid family photos are the ones that really capture you. I wonder why you close yourself off to the camera like that.

I pray it isn't because of any insecurity. I hate to see you self-deprecate.It pains me to think you don't see what I do when I see you. I see a woman beyond compare, a woman so unique her story deserves to be told and told over again. But you never seem to share. We, your grandchildren, only get tid-bits, snapshots of your life before us; a sentence here, a story there, an "oh nevermind that was so long ago" sigh.

I could go on for ages on how you amaze me. You broke so many rules growing up; you were so unforgivingly yourself and that inspires me. You get married at the *elderly* age of 25, after getting a formal education, unheard of for your day. You didn't settle for less than what you knew was right. But that didn't stop you from accepting a proposal from a man you met just hours ago, and moving to America a month later with him, the adventure of a lifetime. Tears well up in both our eyes every time we think about that man, about how much we loved him, about what a good decision that was. Your instincts astound me.

You raised two intelligent, capable, charitable, kind and now successful children in a loving and warm household while being an educated, busy working mother in a new country. You taught them to appreciate their Indian and Hindu heritages, but also to be integrated into your Long Island neighborhood, and you never looked back to regret anything. You are the only Indian "auntie," or immigrant of your age that I've met who doesn't speak with an accent. You became American and achieved the American Dream better than anybody. Even throughout all your obvious achievement, you have a level of humility, religious devotion, generosity and selflessness that sages aspire to achieve. Your liveliness, independence and your dedication to hard work astound me. You are stubborn and opinionated; I see where I got that from. Your intelligence, compassion, and wisdom always strike me. My favorite line is "do no harm to anyone but do not be afraid to speak the truth," in response to my last article.

I've seen you weather loss and hurt, but I've seen you retaliate with fortitude and the same sass that my father is unthankful that I inherited.

I know sometimes I don't act like it, but you are easily one of the most valued people in my life. Living with you is a blessing, and I know I should let you know that more often. I'm sorry for every time I've underappreciated you, sipped your morning (or afternoon) coffee when you weren't looking, and hugged you without having showered earlier that day, even though I know that bothers you.

Mom always jokes she gave birth to a "mini Damini," that I am you, only 60 years younger. When people say I look like you, I couldn't feel prettier. When people say I act like you, I couldn't feel stronger. I love you to the moon and back Dadi Ba.

Yours truly,
Ishani