Tuesday, two weeks ago, marked the end of an era for my maternal family when Mataji, my grandma passed away. My grandfather passed away two years ago. The lifetimes of my maternal grandparents summed, are close to two hundred years. Most, if not all, of her time Mataji gave to her family. So, when she passed away Mataji finally released the baton of great responsibility and much love. Responsibility of preserving herself, her family, and a culture she toted to the exotic shores of Bombay (now Mumbai) in 1947. They emigrated after the partition of India. A humble stalwart, she preserved and nurtured it all. She passed away at 95 leaving behind a legacy, a copyright, only a woman can. Her six children who live between India and North America, are extremely well versed with their culture even though most of them have never stepped on the soil of their native land. To this day they converse in Bahawalpuri, their native tongue, a dialect of Saraiki, an Indo-Aryan language of the people of Lahnda, Western Punjab.
I treasure a petticoat that my mother made over 50 years ago. Hand embroidered to wear under transparent sarees, it has a pocket where it falls near my shins. The first time I saw it, I wondered I fit was a patch to hide a breach. My mom told me that at the time of partition, there was a fear of being looted and even if someone frisked you, there was a chance they would miss this precise spot because of the way the pleats of the saree fell over the pocket. Mataji sowed secret pockets on clothes all the time. I had goose bumps thinking of the horrors that she may have apprehended. From their survival and safety, to the fears of losing her extended family and the only culture she knew! It only seems logical then that her favorite and most repeated phrase was koi durr nai! Loosely it translates to we need not fear. Whether one had added too much salt to a curry, had made an error while sowing, or had health or fiscal crises, Mataji always offered solutions or support with koi durr nai! Those three words sum up her entire life for me.
How she transcended cultural boundaries from the day she packed her bearings and lead new beginnings, I do not know. I know that she must have experienced success and failure all along, she was human like that. From local languages, local cuisines to foreign languages, cuisines, new lifestyles and marriages outside the community that we descendants have adopted, she was welcoming, proud and enjoyed our happiness. On rare occasions she bought us treats from peppermint candy to idlis that vendors catered from the slums of Mumbai. She even parted with her small savings for us to enjoy a lavish breakfast of dal-pakwaan on Sunday mornings! I ruminate those memories and think of the fears that she set aside, ad infinitum. How did she feel about standing on the street with two little kids savouring idlis from an unknown vendor? After all, to eat standing on the street, a new cuisine made in a kitchen she had no clue about, was exactly what she was taught never to do! She was indoctrinated to serve state of the art home cooked meals. In her home she would be offended if one did not have the patience to sit down while drinking water, let alone while eating. What thoughts was she braving as she bought sugary peppermint candy just after my grandfather had lectured us on not eating sugar? If I begin to describe the mint-chutney that trimmed our pakwaans, I am afraid I might disturb grandpa’s soul resting in peace! At the time, it did not seem arduous that she broke rules which were likely set by my grandparents themselves. At a time when few women in India had socio-cultural access to mainstream jobs, my mother and her sisters were enabled to be financially independent, while they crossed every t, and dotted all i’s at home making. To date my mother becomes uncomfortable if I buy rather than sow or order rather than cook!
In Nashik, India, where we immersed Mataji’s ashes, I chanced upon the sculptor studio of the Garge family and was awed by the exemplary Bhakti – Shakti (strength-devotion) statue, which reflects the culture of the state of Maharashtra where Mumbai, now our ancestral home, is located. The statue of devout Saint Tukaram beside the epitome of strength, Emperor Shivaji. When I think of Mataji’s life, she led a miniature strength and devotion movement of her own. Few people reading this can understand the magnitude of this parallel I have drawn. Google might offer a glimpse, but cultures are lived not read, so pardon me. What does it take to move to a foreign land at 21 years of age and responsibly transform your husband’s humble salary into a socio-culturally and economically healthy and wealthy family of eight (now more than 20)? From socio-political will to a good immune response, it takes a zillion element and then some more. For us, Mataji gathered it all.
I look around and from clothes, upholstery, my fundamentals in cooking to when my mother demands accountability of or judges me for how I spend my time, Mataji is integral to my life. Often when I read concepts and philosophies of health, they are not eureka moments because these were choices that grandparents and parents made and served us on a platter. You are turning into your mother; on occasion I will tease my mother, and she laughs just like her mother. There is no dearth of unsolicited home remedies for everything from boo-boos to tonsilitis, malaria and even the wrinkles on my face when I laugh! The last one sent me rolling on the floor albeit in shock. I must admit that the remedy always shifts my focus from the problem to the solution and ultimately it serves a purpose. The wrinkle ridding recipe was not Mataji’s, but the instinct to pursue health and happiness is. She empowered us with a very rich cultural heritage and a healthy and fun repertoire. She never complained even though on many an important occasion, life unfolded in the most uninspiring manner and systems that should have supported her resolve, often withered and failed her. She lost an eye 17 years ago when she was walking to a grocery store, tripped on a poorly constructed path and a stone pierced her eye. She always hoped for her daughters to get benefits of child-care, social security and other choices. Those remain distant dreams but Mataji always offered hope and then she suggested they buckle up.
On occasion, Mataji was offended by chauvinism and patriarchy, though mostly she accepted it as a way of life and taught us the same. When I see how fiercely independent her female progeny is, the matriarchal blueprint is steadfast. Today, as I make choices, I transcend boundaries and set aside my own doubts, I am reminded of her careful adoption of modernity within the limited choices she had. Her shakti I have been in awe of, and it is fundamental to the opportunities I choose from. On the eve of women’s day, as we brought a ritualistic closure to her being, I reflect on our lives, children, grand and great, and how they are a celebration of her fearlessness. We all feared the moment and this time, the reality of life and death, the longing for Mataji to be around, smile, check on us and just speak in Bahalwalpuri. Her words reverberate, koi durr nai!
