A year has passed. So fast. The memories return, as real as life. I think. But cannot come up with a solution. The problem is one that people have been facing forever. And will continue to do so until Japan finds a way to make Technology God. The pain surfaces within - again. I remember the day all too clearly.
November 17th, 2005
I am woken up by a familiar sounding voice calling my name. I open my eyes, groggy as a drunk. My father’s there, saying something to me. My ears aren’t ready for work yet. All I can hear is a jumble of sounds. I look at the clock, it is just past 3am. I ask him to repeat. He says, ‘She’s gone’. Two words. I am instantly awake, and I try to take stock of my feelings. I check for shock, sorrow, and fear. They are nowhere to be seen. I identify the feeling. I am numb. And, to some extent, I feel something that really scares me when I identify it. I am happy.
We go downstairs to their room. My grandfather’s sitting there, looking completely lost. He sees me and bursts into tears. The nurse sitting next to the bed is also weeping slowly and steadily. I fling my arms around Daddy and try to console him. He is in shock, and cannot help his sudden outbursts of emotion, which stop as suddenly as they start. Eventually I pull away, and walk towards the bed. There she is, as beautiful as i’ve ever known her. She’s lying absolutely straight, and has a look of resignation, peace, and satisfaction on her face. It is as peaceful an expression as I’ve seen on her face in months. And she is gone.
It is said that when one faces sudden loss, time slows, and every moment associated with the loss is relived in the person’s mind.
Barima. That’s what we called her. Literally translates into ‘Big Mother’. And she was, and how. She was by far the strongest human being I have ever met. She was hard of hearing from as far back as I can remember. We used to visit her and Daddy every summer or winter break, when we were kids. They used to live in Faridabad. Back in the day, it was the most exciting place my sister and I could think of visiting. The trips would be planned out months in advance. The entire experience was something to .. well.. experience. Starting with the packing, the tiffin of Parathas that we’d demolish in the train en route, the coloring books that were disfigured in a short two days, the brainless banter we’d indulge in, the fear of taking a crap in the Indian style loos, the periodic hourly fights Sumo and I would indulge in - Bliss. And then, the arrival in Delhi. A forty minute journey into Haryana, and the entry into the all too familiar lane.
Lohit Niwas. That’s what Daddy named the house. Needless to say, as an 8 year old, I was more than a little flattered. My most vivid memories of F’dabad are of Winters. Sumo and I would be asleep on Daddy’s bed, between him and Barima. Mom and Dad shared the only other room, at the other end of the house. Daddy would surface bright and early.. ahem.. at 4am, for his bout of fitness, his daily 7 km walk. Which would mean that by 4.30, we’d be offered to join him. The first few times that we declined, he looked rather astonished that we wouldn’t want to admire the joys of winter at that time of morning, followed by hurriedly swallowed disgust, and finally he stopped asking. I still love him for it.
Barima on the other hand, was far more considerate. She was always on our side - never forcing me to eat the vilest of vegetables like karelas and baingan, slyly palming them onto her own plate when Daddy wasn’t looking. She would make us unlimited glasses of Shikanjvi (nimbu paani) and give us lumps of Mishri (unprocessed sugar) to chew on.
That was Barima.
She would ask us what we wanted to eat, insist on us choosing, and then, after we’d put forward our respective requests, with a look of disappointment inform us that she’d already prepared something else for breakfast.
That too, was Barima.
She’d make us ‘Ice Cream’ which would be kulfi frozen in an ice tray, and it had a charm of its own. The joy on my face, as I’d open the freezer and pop out cubes of kulfi - hell yeah! Followed by ‘Ande Vali Pudding’, (egg pudding) a.k.a. Caramel Custard. As may be evident, she wasn’t one for fancy names. As long as the food tasted the way it was supposed to, it was a job well done. And, it definitely always was. The things that lady could do, and get away with - who puts left over cabbage and carrots into a paratha? Not to mention Lauki. I mean, there are some things that sane people just DON’T do! Yet the outcome would always be incredible. Then there would be Habshi Meat (mutton made by tribals) - this one time she taught me how to make it. Unfortunately… hmm.. no comment.
Food. The one thing that I associate with her. Once, she asked me when I was a kid, “So what will you do if I die?”, to which I replied, “You can cook a room full of parathas before dying”. I was around 7. She laughed and promised she would.
That’s the only promise she ever made me which she didn’t keep.
I see her lying on the bed. Half an hour has passed. Phone calls have been made to all concerned. Daddy’s still sitting in the same position, staring into nothing. Mum’s arrived, and is trying to talk to him. I see my father sitting next to the bed. He’s in control of himself. I want to go up to him and talk to him. I want to hug him, comfort him, and be there for him, but I don’t. We’re not like that. We never really were. He loves me, and vice versa, but as far as bonding goes, we have our own peculiar way of doing it. I ask him if he’s ok, and he replies in the affirmative. That’s it. We’ve expected this for a while. I have fervently hoped for it to happen for a long time. I know not if that makes me despicable, but I don’t care. I know that she’s happier. That’s all that counts.
We ask the nurse what exactly happened. She tells us that she had finished monitoring the Oxygen supply a short while ago, and was resting. Suddenly, she heard Barima hiccup and saw her spasm momentarily. And then it was over.
The thin line between the living and the dead.
After a while I go back up to bed. There’s nothing to be done till the morning. Dad’s organising the cremation. I sit in bed and my minds begins to float again.
‘And the Meaning, Gets Left Behind
All the Innocence, Lost at One Time
We’re All Different, Behind the Eyes..’
Her hearing aid. It was a part of her life, more of a hindrance than anything else actually. Probably because she’d wear it, and forget to turn it on most of the time. Every morning, Sumo and I would wake up before sunrise; because she’d be ‘whispering’ (at about 90 decibels) to Daddy that he should let us sleep and not disturb us. That was just the beginning. She was also in the habit of visiting the loo in the middle of the night. And the logic was simple - if she needed to go, so should the others. So she’d wake Sumo up (up until she was about 16) and say, “Maksho, pishab te nahi karna?”, and a rather embarrassed, not to mention indignant teenager spent the next five minutes trying to convince her grandmother that she was old enough to visit the loo when the need arose. But, a dinosaur never could outrun, nor defeat a meteorite speeding towards it, and in that way, Sumo had to deal with Barima’s loo requests for a long, long time.
At the breakfast table, all of us would be seated, and enjoying her hand-cooked food. She would ask Daddy if he wanted another Paratha, and he, though he was a foody (and would have made four of them disappear like an Annual bonus on a shopping spree) would politely decline. Because she was so used to his asking for more, and also because her hearing aid wouldn’t be completely functional, she would at this point yell at him, saying that he’d eaten enough. The poor man didn’t know what hit him. In the next two minutes, she had lam-blasted him for eating like a pig and not trying to control his weight, for hogging on food even though his stomach ought to be full, for stuffing his face silly with anything in sight. All this because the poor old man said that he didn’t want more food. This unfailingly led to a ruckus, where Daddy would scream that he didn’t want more, and Barima would yell back that she would not give him any more to eat. By the time Daddy’s face turned a shade of dangerous pink (and this was not easy for him, considering his entire face was covered with a long mustache and a flowing beard) we’d intervene, and by the time the situation was explained to Barima, she’d walk off in a huff, muttering under her breath, ‘ Khar-Dimag’ (Donkey brain!). After this daily session of entertainment, we’d get down to business - eating salad.
Delhi winters need to be experienced. The weather changes around mid-October, bringing a slight nip with it. A few weeks later, that little nip develops into something bigger, and in November, the temperature is perfect! The air becomes alive, people start feeling happier, more relaxed, and the tension is withdrawn from their lives. That time of year is here again. Only today, the joy is missing, the happiness is gone, there is no relaxation, and the tension has returned. I can picture the others downstairs, sitting with Barima, mourning her going. Each one has an explanation - ‘She was tired, and weak’, ‘She was waiting for her son to some back from the UK, so she could be at peace’, ‘She got sick of the medication’ etc. Then they sit and talk about how their lives are not worth living because she has left them. They cry, not saying that they miss her, but that now life will be very difficult for ’them’. I think I feel sick listening to it. It is not that they didn’t care for her. They probably cared for her as much as I did. But when Barima was around, the mistake that took place, as with everyone else, was that nobody told her often enough. She knew alright, but its one thing to know, and another to hear it from the ones who love you. I go down to the kitchen and open the fridge. I take some stuff out.
Salad. The boon of winters. Fresh white radishes, carrots, lettuce, and cucumbers. Cut into long pieces, or eaten whole. With a slight (or more than) sprinkling of salt, red chili powder, Chaat Masala, and fresh lime. Eaten sitting in the backyard, at noon, under the winter sun, leading to bliss that really cannot be expressed in words. We sat there, munching away. Daddy was busy cleaning and cutting the radishes and carrots. He always did. It was the only work related to the kitchen that he was in charge of, other than shopping. Barima would make a huge kettle of tea and come and serve us. So there we’d be, chilling in the sun, falling into a stupor caused only by a combination of comfortable relaxation, fresh salad, tea, and Delhi winters. Everyone would go quiet after a while, contemplating their lives. I would do the same, dreaming of the future, of being a super hero, of earning lots of money, of winning over beautiful women.
I was 6. That was what Faridabad would do to a person. It was so laid back, in a time zone of its own. People knew each other, and smiled when they met on the streets. They went for a fancy dinner out once a month, or less frequently. This would comprise a trip to a restaurant fit to serve around 30 people. It was all too exciting. The outing would be talked about for weeks after, the quality of the soup, the ambience, the food, and of course, the phenomenal Paan we ate just outside the restaurant.
Somewhere along the line, I think all of us lost something. Not quite sure what, but suddenly everything around us changed. One fine morning, things were not what they were the night before; Change had arrived. And Life was never the same again. I don’t know when this happened, exactly, but happen it did. And like most of the world, I live in the past.
The ambulance arrives, and Barima is carried into the back, and strapped onto a stretcher. My cousin Danny and I decide to accompany her to the crematorium. On the way we talk about her life. About a lot of the stuff I’ve mentioned above. He told me about an incident that took place when he was in college and used to live with Daddy and Barima.
Danny was seeing a girl called Priya, who was the daughter of a family friend. One fine day, after much planning, Priya was to stay over at Daddy’s place for the night. Obviously, expectations were high, as such things were not easy to co-ordinate in those days. The much awaited day arrived, and Priya came over. There was electricity in the air. Someone put the main supply off rather soon, though. The night saw Danny and Priya on the same bed (mother of God!). Of course, Barima was lying between the two of them!
That, too, was Barima.
We arrive. I help to take her body out of the van and strap it onto a wooden stretcher. The family puts shawls and flowers on her. She is secured in place with rope. By this time, a lot of relatives and Dad’s colleagues have arrived to pay their condolences. I deliberately ignore most of them. I don’t feel like spending time making small talk.
She is carried to the area where the cremation will take place. She is placed on the ground, and a Pujari hovers about, muttering unintelligible words in what is probably Sanskrit, not like any of us can tell. Daddy is sitting very close to the pyre; he still cannot believe what is happening. Dad’s the Son; it’s his duty to carry out the last rites. The only part of Barima that’s visible is her face. He is made to pour honey over her eyes and on her lips, as it aids combustion; but I”m sure there’s a religious reason for the same too. Then he sprinkles liberal amounts of some dark brown powder, which also helps in combustion. Now, for the first time since last night, I see tears in his eyes. I am sickened. I keep watching. Now it is time for the wood. I help stack the wood over her body till she is completely hidden. This is goodbye.
The fire is started. The Pujari pours oil over the entire pyre. People start leaving to attend the Kirtan fifty metres away. I stick around. Five minutes later, I’m alone. The fire has become powerful now. It is roaring, and seems to be going all out to devour everything within its reach. I get lost looking at its flames. I see the wood burn along its length, changing color and turning darker by the second. Suddenly, a small section of the pyre gives way, as the wood is completely charred. It is near the top. I step a little closer, not knowing what I hope to see. I’m filled with disgust, and fascination. I cannot take my eyes off the sight in front of me. It has the terrible attraction that watching ’The World’s Most Amazing Videos’ has, or being witness to an accident does.
I can see a white orb. It is smooth, and round, looking out of place among the pieces of burning wood. A light in the midst of the darkness. I move closer, to figure things out. Realisation hits me. It is her skull. Now I truly am transfixed. I stand there for almost thirty minutes and watch. The flames dance around it, registering an enemy that isn’t easy to defeat. They change their tactic. All at once, they pounce on it, trying to crush it with sheer force. It fails miserably. There the orb lies, defiantly challenging the fire all around it. For a long time, the battle wages. Nothing changes. And then it happens - with a sharp noise, the orb cracks. The battle is finally drawing to an end. There are too many of the opposition. It is just a matter of time. In a few minutes more, it splits, and sections of it cave in. I have captured a lot of it on video - my phone.
This is how people in my side of the world bid farewell to someone who’s brought them up, cared for them, and died old and weak-
and Alone..
‘Lightning Crashes,
The Old Mother Dies.
Her Intentions Fall to the Floor
The Angel Closes Her Eyes.’
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