Remembering Maa

 

 

I was brought up in a typical Indian joint family household. Both a boon and a bane. Many hands to shield me from the wrath of elders on the warpath and just as many to chastise me for various misdemeanours! Creating mischief required that much more planning, what with so many beady eyes trained on me. Needless to say, that spurred rather than deterred me.

 

There was always someone to play with, someone to vent to, someone to learn from, someone to prank. So much was absorbed subconsciously, about life and living and conducting oneself in general.

 

None more so than from my Bari Maa. She was my father’s eldest brother’s wife, and was Maa for all of us … her children, her nieces and nephews, her grandchildren, her great grandchildren… just Maa. And a mother’s love is exactly what I have been gifted by her all my life. After I got married, every time I came home and went to see her, a smile would light up her face with the words, “Tu aa gayi. Abhi yahin rukegi na. Apne sasural mein nahin na”. (You’re come. You’ll stay here for a while, won’t you. And not at your in laws). That warmth, that joy with which I was welcomed never failed to move me to tears. Marriage changes so much. The home that was once your world, where you learnt to walk, to run, to dream, to build castles, is still home, but only until the time a smile lights up the faces of those living there upon seeing you.

 

On one of my visits to India, it was Maa who came to receive me. The moment we sat in the car, she took out a little tiffin and opened it. “Itni door se aayi hai, bhook lagi hogi tujhe” (you’ve come from so far, you must be hungry) running her hand on my head. “Tujhe samosa achha lagta hai na, abhi kha le, phir ghar jaakar theek se khaana kha lenge”(you like samosas no, eat some now. We will eat properly once we’re home). Her experience of airline food was not satisfactory to say the least. And the idea of my having spent so many hours at their mercy was most dissatisfying for her. Needless to say, those were the best samosas ever.

 

Age has a way of catching us unawares. Each time I saw her after a gap of months, she was a little slower, a little more withdrawn. Aches and pains were constant companions. But, she continued her regular walks up and down the long corridor running the length of our home.  Where once it was firm steps accompanied by the jingling of her chaabi ka guchha (bunch of keys), now it was the rolling and tapping of her walker announcing her to all on the way. And if by chance I hadn’t greeted her before settling down with someone else, woe betide!

 

But the remonstrations slowly began to have tinges of resignation, as internal ailments washed over. She became more solitary even the midst of company. Happy to have people around her, but equally content to be by herself. In fact, at times, the chatter of others became just noise, as more solitude beckoned. Death, when it came, was a release for her. She had borne immense grief in her life with the loss of two of her children and of her husband. Maybe, now there is more peace for her as she joins them.

 

The period of mourning has had all of us cousins reminiscing about her and about our childhood. We sit nursing cups of tea in our hands as the rising sun slowly fills the house with warmth. A time when Maa would be sitting in the Mandir doing her puja. Now it’s only Panditji’s voice which drifts over. How much has changed. How much will now further change with her passing. There are so many precious memories tied up in our childhood home, in our elders. It makes you face the starkness of death, of the unrelenting passing of eras as time refuses to wait for mere mortals.

 

I can hear the distant giggling and screaming of our childhood voices running around her wing of our home. We totally had the run of the place! We still do, but now wistfulness and sadness is what we see. Soon our present reminisces will also be reduced to a distant memory. But, the love, the warmth, the sense of belonging will not change. We have been generously bestowed with it all of our lives, how can we not continue to nurture it. It would be a travesty to fritter it away.

 

That is the true legacy of Maa. The one that is infinitely precious.

 

The last time I met her was not too long back. When I had walked in her room, her nurse had begun to ask her if she remembered who I was, as her memory was fading. Immediately, she said scolding her, “Pata hai mujhe. Yeh meri beti hai, Ruchi. London se aayi hai mere paas.” (I know. She’s my daughter, Ruchi. She’s come from London to be with me)

 

I did come again, Maa. But you were not there. To smile for me. To welcome me home. To bless me. To insist on giving me envelopes of your love. To say, “Tu aa gayi … Yeh meri beti hai”.

 

Loving words that I will never hear you saying again. Ever.

 

~ Ruchi