Dadiji’s first of many gifts to me was the white woolen shawl when I visited my sasural in Kanke during the winter of 2002 post my engagement. It must have been dear to her given that V bhaiya and M bhabhi had brought it for her as a souvenir from their honeymoon. A thoughtful selection – white base with brown creepers, soft, light and cozy, perfect for the Ranchi winters. Yet, it must have been more important to pamper the newest member of the family. Just before Dadiji’s final hospitalisation a month ago, my daughter I picked that shawl for the first winter that lies ahead of her at boarding school. Needless to say, its pristineness and of course the absence of true winter chill in both Ahmedabad and later Bangalore, were deterrents enough for me to really use it. It was as well preserved in my wardrobe, I dare say, as it would have been in hers.
Dadiji came to stay with us in Ahmedabad in 2003 from one of the Jaipur trips before S’s engagement. She was eager to visit her brother in Mumbai. Ashish had her embark on her first solo train journey by putting her on a Shatabdi Express to Mumbai. And there she was, Dadiji at the age of 70, travelling by herself!
Somewhere during her same visit, we planned a trip to Somnath and Dwarka. The trio of us had ice cream at the bus station before boarding the sleeper bus. It had actual berths which I had heard of and seen for the first time. We sat cross legged on our double berth and chatted late into the night with Dadiji and Ashish (okay, Ashish and Dadiji) recounting innumerable tales of interactions and negotiations with vegetable vendors, escapades of the domestic staff, adventures of all the children growing up in that nature’s haven and abundance of vegetable garden harvests and their creative usage in the family kitchen. Dadaji featured in some of the stories, more for his remarkable character and the strict decorum and discipline that he followed and demanded from Dadiji. It was a joyous trip. I will safely conclude that the only memories I recall are happy ones. We were too young and she was too old for us to end up in conflicts of any manner.
Leaning her elbows on the kitchen counter, she would be smiling ear to ear, watching my kitchen antics. Soaking chana masala and stir frying it before adding the boiled chana to it. Scraping off every bit of malai from the milk pan and stowing it in the fridge for eventual extraction of ghee before putting the milk-pan in for a wash. Trying to cook rice and daal simultaneously in the same pressure cooker to save fuel. I was always second guessing myself and wondering if she was amused at my incompetence. Of course, I know better now. Over the years I learnt what she valued. And I was probably doing some things right by her, at least in spirit.
She loved eating corn, it was the season and miraculously the vendor was spotted below our balcony every evening. I would dash down the four flights of steps to fetch it for her and please her and consequently please myself. My act of dusting the frame of our wrought iron sofa would draw appreciative glances from her. And I would then work at it more thoroughly, reaching into the most difficult spots. The memory of that act recently kept me company as I got back to that chore with the said sofa, without grudging the absence of house help in my lately ongoing crisis.
In a different decade and city, while I was on my parenting sabbatical from professional work, Ashish and I had the ‘cute’ idea (in retrospect) of having Buaji and Dadiji over with us in Bangalore for a fun week. The Lal Bagh flower show was on and the crowds were easy to negotiate back then. With kids packed off to school, the four of us had a lovely outing, the two of us chaperoning elders for a change. I remember having a noxious verbal tiff with the security guard for not allowing our car near the gate to drop off senior citizens. Once inside, we got Dadiji on the e-vehicle for easy touring of the garden. She obliged my whim by posing for a photo perched in the driver’s seat of the e-vehicle. Srinathji's was a sattvic fast food joint in the heart of our neighbourhood. Who would imagine that Dadiji who never ate out when at home could do a typical pizza pasta sizzler outing! Buaji gave me the secret tip to the ideal no-brainer brunch for Dadiji – an aaloo based, well cooked and garnished sabzi along with crunchy paratha. Well, nothing could match up to the taste of Dadiji’s thick aaloo parathas prepared with spontaneity and a love cloaked in nonchalance, for her grandchildren and their spouses.
A stickler for finesse, her saris were crisp with starch and personal ironing as no one could reach her exacting standards. Her bed sheet was tucked to perfection without a single crease and misalignment. Everything was always in its perfect place in her room no matter what time of day or night. This evoked a minor panic attack in me if I had to open up my bedroom door without having tidied it up first. Not that she ever commented. She encouraged, taught and maybe even demanded busy hands. And for good reason. Her own hands were busy while they were steady and also beyond. Handkerchiefs with intricate lace borders crocheted by her find a place with my rare collectibles.
A is lucky to have worn a sweater crocheted by her great grand mom. Also to have worn a kurta that was worn by her grandfather in his baby-hood, discovered by Dadiji in her treasure trove, aka trunk. The said trunk also had a length of olive-green khadi fabric that belonged to Dadaji which she fondly passed on to me for getting kurtas stitched.
Dadiji was an advocate for everyone. Always siding with who she thought was un-represented or did not have a voice at that point in time. She laughed off my cheekiness and logical reasoning countering traditional wisdom and cultural norms. She had her own sense of humour. Playing with my second newborn, she made a classic remark – Bhagwan thodi si maati ore laga deto to ke hoto?! Honestly, I could never take offence or feel hurt at this comment. She did not attach herself to our generation's outcomes. Maybe that altered some things.
‘Dadiji, kaiyaan ho they?’ was always met with the un-hesitating response ‘Chokha hn’. She did live with the virtue of her times — never sharing her pain or suffering and actively advocating the same to me. I see the wisdom now, convinced of it for more reasons than what was given by her.
What powers govern our actions and choices? I had spontaneously decided to plan my Varanasi trip via Ranchi. Dadiji had been in the hospital for more than a fortnight when I arrived. The dedicated care being showered on her by the family could not alleviate her suffering. Her discomfort and helpless groaning were disconcerting. She was not even in a state to indicate that she had registered I's and my presence. I left for the conference. To the holy land of Banaras. The spirituality of the talks, aura of some speakers, sightings of the Ganges, the ghat walks, burning pyres and the aakash deeps – all kept reminding me of her and the imminent ending that was looking us in the face. Dadiji was unconscious when I visited her upon my return. She was peaceful in her carbon-dioxide-saturation-induced slumber. I imagined a moment of quiet connection with her when I touched her forehead and attempted to reach her soul with mine through my closed eyes. I choose to believe that the decision to bring her home instead of advancing to ventilator support that evening helped her ease out of her suffering body which had started to resemble a tube infested maze.
Was it her blessing to me that I was around when she breathed her last and her mortal remains were being sent off for their final journey? I wonder why, during this trip, was I wearing her meenakari bangles that she had handed me for my mooh dikhai?
Not living in Ranchi, I knew her very little. Ours was a relationship pivoted on fun and not any mould of expectations or responsibilities. Whatever time I shared in the same space as her formed the basis of this unique relationship and will remain a precious treasure. Stories of her youth and our ancestors, which my children gleaned from her, are now etched in our memories as iconic scenes of blockbuster movies.
With Dadiji’s passing away, an era has ended. The light that shone on our culture and traditions seems a little feeble now. She was the bridge across to the times before her. That portal is closed. A generation is lost.
Today was the ultimate of the last rites – final goodbyes and setting the soul free of all earthly ties, to merge with the creator. As we believe.
25th November 2024
Beautifully scripted
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