Here, There and Everywhere

by Sudha Murty

  My grandmother, Krishtakka, never went to school so she could not read. Every Wednesday, the magazine would come and I would read the next episode of this story to her. During that time she would forget all her work and listen with the greatest concentration. Later, she could repeat the entire text by heart. My grandmother too never went to Kashi, and she identified herself with the novel’s protagonist. So more than anybody else she was the one most interested in knowing what happened next in the story and used to insist that I read the serial out to her.

  After hearing what happened next in Kashi Yatre, she would join her friends at the temple courtyard, where we children would also gather to play hide-and-seek. She would discuss the latest episode with her friends. At that time, I never understood why there was so much debate about the story.

  Once I went for a wedding with my cousins to the neighbouring village. In those days, a wedding was a great event. We children enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We would eat and play endlessly, savouring the freedom because all the elders were busy. I went for a couple of days but ended up staying there for a week.

  When I came back to my village, I saw my grandmother in tears. I was surprised, for I had never seen her cry even in the most difficult situations.

  What had happened? I was worried.

  ‘Avva, is everything all right? Are you OK?’

  I used to call her ‘Avva’, which means ‘mother’ in the Kannada spoken in north Karnataka.

  She nodded but did not reply. I did not understand and forgot about it. In the night, after dinner, we were sleeping on the open terrace of the house. It was a summer night and there was a full moon. Avva came and sat next to me. Her affectionate hands touched my forehead. I realized she wanted to speak. I asked her, ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘When I was a young girl I lost my mother. There was nobody to look after and guide me. My father was a busy man and got married again. In those days people did not consider education essential for girls, so I never went to school. I got married very young and had children. I became very busy. Later I had grandchildren and always felt so much happiness in cooking and feeding all of you. At times I used to regret not going to school, so I made sure that my children and grandchildren studied well …’

  I could not understand why my sixty-two-year-old grandmother was telling me, a twelve-year-old, the story of her life in the middle of the night. But I knew I loved her immensely and there had to be some reason why she was talking to me. I looked at her face. It was unhappy and her eyes were filled with tears. She was a good-looking lady who was usually always smiling. Even today I cannot forget the worried expression on her face. I leant forward and held her hand.

  ‘Avva, don’t cry. What is the matter? Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘Yes, I need your help. You know when you were away, Karmaveera came as usual. I opened the magazine. I saw the picture that accompanies the story of Kashi Yatre and I could not understand anything that was written. Many times I rubbed my hands over the pages wishing they could understand what was written. But I knew it was not possible.

  ‘If only I was educated enough. I waited eagerly for you to return. I felt you would come early and read for me. I even thought of going to the village and asking you to read for me. I could have asked somebody in this village but I was too embarrassed to do so. I felt so dependent and helpless. We are well off, but what use is money when I cannot be independent?’

  I did not know what to answer. Avva continued.

  ‘I have decided I want to learn the Kannada alphabet from tomorrow. I will work very hard. I will keep Saraswati Puja day during Dasara as the deadline. That day I should be able to read a novel on my own. I want to be independent.’

  I saw the determination on her face. Yet I laughed at her.

  ‘Avva, at this age of sixty-two you want to learn the alphabet? All your hair is grey, your hands are wrinkled, you wear spectacles and you work so much in the kitchen …’ Childishly I made fun of the old lady. But she just smiled.

  ‘For a good cause if you are determined, you can overcome any obstacle. I will work harder than anybody, but I will do it. For learning there is no age bar.’

  The next day onwards I started my tuition. Avva was a wonderful student. The amount of homework she did was amazing. She would read, repeat, write and recite. I was her only teacher and she was my first student. Little did I know then that one day I would become a teacher in computer science and teach hundreds of students.

  The Dasara festival came as usual. Secretly I bought Kashi Yatre which had been published as a novel by that time. My grandmother called me to the puja place and made me sit down on a stool. She gave me the gift of a dress material. Then she did something unusual. She bent down and touched my feet. I was surprised and taken aback. Elders never touch the feet of youngsters. We have always touched the feet of God, elders and teachers. We consider that as a mark of respect. It is a great tradition but today the reverse had happened. It was not correct.

  She said, ‘I am touching the feet of a teacher, not my granddaughter; a teacher who taught me so well, with so much affection that I can read any novel confidently after such a short period. Now I am independent. It is my duty to respect a teacher. Is it not written in our scriptures that a teacher should be respected, irrespective of gender and age?’

  I did return namaskara to her by touching her feet and gave my gift to my first student. She opened it and read immediately the title Kashi Yatre by Triveni and the publisher’s name. I knew then that my student had passed with flying colours.

  12

  Rahman’s Avva

  Rahman was a young and soft-spoken employee who worked in a BPO. He was also an active volunteer in our Foundation. He would not talk without reason and would never boast about his achievements.

  Rahman was a perfectionist. So any assignment given to him was done exceedingly well. He worked for the Foundation on the weekends and was very kind to the children in the orphanage. He spent his own money and always brought sweets for the children. I really liked him.

  Since we worked closely together, he learnt that I am from north Karnataka, from Dharwad district. My language has that area’s accent and my love for Dharwad food is very well known. One day, Rahman came and asked me, ‘Madam, if you are free this Sunday, will you come to my house? My mother and sister are visiting me. Incidentally, my mother is also from Dharwad district. My family has read your columns in Kannada and your books too. When I told them that I am working with you, they expressed their earnest desire to meet you. Is it possible for you to have lunch with us?’

  ‘Will you assure me that I’ll get a good Dharwad meal?’ I joked.

  ‘I assure you, madam. My mother is a great cook.’

  ‘Come on, Rahman. Every boy gives this compliment to his mother, however bad she may be at cooking. It is the mother’s love that makes the food great.’

  ‘No, she really is an amazing cook. Even my wife says so.’

  ‘Then she must be really great because no daughter-in-law praises her mother-in-law’s cooking without merit.’ I smiled. ‘By the way, which village in Dharwad district do they come from?’

  He told me the name of a village near Ranebennur that I had never heard of. I happily agreed to visit them for lunch.

  That Sunday, I took some flowers along. Rahman’s newly constructed apartment was on Bannerghatta Road near the zoo. When I entered his home, I met his wife, Salma. She was a smart and good-looking girl. She worked as a teacher in the kindergarten nearby.

  Then, he called out to his avva. A mother is usually referred to as ‘avva’ in north Karnataka. An old lady with grey hair came out of the kitchen. Rahman introduced her, ‘This is my mother.’ I was a bit surprised—she was not quite what I had expected. She was wearing a huge bindi the size of a 25-paisa coin and an Ilkal sari with lots of green bangles on both arms. She kept the sari pallu on her head. She had a contented smile on her face and with folded hands she said, ‘Namaste.’


  Rahman’s sister entered from another room. She was so different from Rahman. Rahman was fair and very handsome. His sister was tall and dark. She was wearing a cotton sari with a smaller bindi than her mother and also had two gold bangles on her hands. Rahman said, ‘This is my sister Usha. She stays in Hirekerur. Both her husband and she are schoolteachers.’

  I felt confused after meeting Rahman’s mother and sister but I did not ask any questions.

  After I sat down comfortably, Usha said, ‘Madam, we love your stories because we feel connected to them. I teach some of your children’s stories at school.’

  Salma also joined the conversation. ‘Even I like them, but my students are too young to understand.’

  Rahman smiled and said, ‘You must be surprised to see my mother and sister. I want to share my story with you.’

  His mother went back to the kitchen and Usha started cleaning the table. Salma went to help her mother-in-law. Only the two of us remained.

  ‘Madam, you must be wondering why my mother and sister are Hindus while I am a Muslim. Only you can understand and appreciate my life story because I have seen you helping people from all religions and communities without bias. I remember your comment to me: we can’t choose the community or religion that we are born into, so we should never think that our community is our identity.’

  Rahman paused, then continued, ‘Madam, I believe in that too because I have also been brought up that way. I want to share my life and my perspective with you.’

  Rahman started his story.

  ‘Thirty years ago, Kashibai and Datturam lived on the outskirts of our village with their six-month-old daughter, Usha. They looked after the ten-acre field of their landlord, Srikant Desai, who lived in Bombay. Srikant only came once a year to collect the revenue. The field was very large and it was too much for Kashibai and Datturam to handle. So, they requested the landlord to get another family to stay with them and help with the field. They also welcomed the thought of having company.

  ‘Srikant contacted his acquaintances and found a suitable family. Soon, Fatima Bi and Husain Saab came to the village. They occupied one portion of the house and the other portion stayed with Kashibai and Datturam. Husain Saab and Datturam got along very well. However, Kashibai and Fatima Bi didn’t see eye to eye at all. It is not that they were bad women but their natures were very different. Kashibai was loud, very frank and hard-working. Fatima Bi was quiet, lazy and an introvert. Inevitably; there was a fight. It all started with a hen. Kashibai’s hen would come to Fatima Bi’s portion of the house and lay eggs. Fatima Bi wouldn’t return the eggs because she thought that her hen had laid them. Kashibai even tried colouring her hen to distinguish it from Fatima Bi’s. Both the ladies shared a common well and would fight because both wanted to wash their vessels and clothes almost always at the same time. They also fought about their goats. Fatima Bi’s goats came and ate Kashibai’s flowers and leaves, which she used for her puja. Sometimes, Kashibai’s goats went to Fatima Bi’s place and left their droppings behind. Fatima Bi wouldn’t return the droppings either.’

  ‘What’s so great about droppings?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Madam, goat droppings are used as manure.’

  ‘Oh, I understand. Please continue,’ I urged Rahman.

  ‘The fights continued and sometimes Kashibai felt that she had made a mistake to tell their landlord that they wanted neighbours. She felt that she had been very happy without Fatima Bi. Fatima Bi also wanted to leave the farm and go to some other village but Husain Saab didn’t agree. He would say, “You women fight about unnecessary things. This is a good opportunity for us to make money. The land is fertile and there is plenty of water. Our landlord is good and hardly visits. We can easily grow vegetables. Where can I get such work nearby? You should also become active like Kashibai and drop your ego. Try to adjust with her.” The same conversation would happen on the other side of the house. Datturam would tell his wife, “Don’t be so aggressive. You should mellow down like Fatima. Though she is lazy, she is good-natured.”

  ‘But as usual, both women never listened to their husbands.

  ‘As time went by, Kashibai’s daughter Usha turned two years old. Fatima Bi loved children and enjoyed watching Usha play in the field. Fatima Bi liked henna a lot. Every month, she coloured her hands with henna from the plant in the field and Usha always joined her. Usha was fascinated with the beautiful orange colour. She would come home and tell her mother, “Why can’t you also colour your hands like Fatima Kaku?” (Kaku is equivalent to ‘aunt’ in the local language.)

  ‘This comment irritated Kashibai. She said, “Fatima can afford to colour her hands because her husband works and also helps in the kitchen. She sits on the bed and listens to the radio. If I do that, will your father come and work in the kitchen?” Fatima Bi would overhear their conversation but still she continued her friendship with little Usha.

  ‘When Fatima became pregnant, she became even lazier. She eventually reached full term and a distant relative came to help her with her delivery. A few days later, there was a festival in the village and Datturam and his family went to attend it. When they came back, Fatima Bi was not there. She was already in the hospital in critical condition and had delivered a son. The house was in complete silence. But the silence was deafening to Kashibai’s ears. She started crying. She was very sad because Fatima Bi was in the hospital in such a serious condition. The next day, they learnt that Fatima Bi was no more.

  ‘Husain Saab was left with his newborn son. The midwife stayed for a month and left. It was an uphill task for Husain Saab to look after a small baby. Neither Husain Saab nor Fatima Bi had any relatives who could take care of the little one. Most of them were coolies and a newborn child would only be a burden to the relatives. Datturam was very sympathetic and allowed Husain Saab to work less in the field but taking care of a small baby alone is very difficult.

  ‘One night, the child started crying non-stop and Kashibai could not take it. She felt that enough was enough. After all, it was a little baby. A woman is so different from a man when it comes to rearing a child. Her motherly instinct made her go next door and tap on Husain Saab’s door without even waiting for her husband. When Husain Saab opened the door, she told him, “Husain Saab, give me the baby. I am a mother. I know how to handle him.” She picked up the baby boy, held him in her pallu and brought him to her house, holding him tightly to her chest. The baby boy stopped crying immediately. For the first time since the baby was born, Husain Saab slept through the night comfortably.

  ‘The next day, Kashibai told Husain Saab, “I will look after this child until you get married again. Don’t worry.” She forgot her enmity with Fatima Bi and even felt ashamed. She thought that she should have been nicer to Fatima Bi. Now, Kashibai did not even bother about where the droppings of the goats fell or where the hens laid their eggs. For her, looking after the baby was more important. The baby was named Rahman and, to everyone’s surprise, Husain Saab did not remarry. Rahman grew up in Kashibai’s house and started calling her Avva and Usha became his akka. Rahman continued to sleep in his father’s house but as soon as the sun rose, he ran to Kashibai’s house to get ready. While Usha bathed on her own, Kashibai bathed little Rahman. She gave them breakfast, packed their lunches and walked them to school. Though Usha was two years older than Rahman, Kashibai made sure that they studied in the same class. Kashibai worked in the field in the afternoon and brought the children back in the evenings. Husain Saab cooked Rahman’s dinner and Rahman would go back and sleep with his father at night. This continued for ten years.

  ‘When Rahman was ten and Usha was twelve years old, Husain Saab fell ill and all his savings were spent on his treatment. Meanwhile, Kashibai purchased two she-buffaloes and started a milk business. She started earning more money than her husband.

  ‘That same year, Husain Saab died of tuberculosis. Rahman was left all alone. There were hardly any people at Husain Saab’s burial. A distant uncle came and told the m
ullah that he would take care of Rahman. But when the time came to take Rahman away, the uncle did not turn up at all. Without a second thought, Datturam and Kashibai took him in. Rahman was happy to stay in Kashibai’s house.

  ‘Kashibai was very conscious about Rahman’s religion. Every Friday, she sent him for namaz and on holidays she sent him for Koran class at the local mosque. She told him to participate in all Muslim festivals even though there were very few Muslims in the village. Rahman also took part in the Hindu festivals celebrated in his house. Datturam and Kashibai bought two cycles for both the kids. Rahman and Usha cycled to high school and later they also rode their cycles to the same college.

  ‘Eventually, they graduated and that day Kashibai told Rahman, “Unfortunately, we don’t have a picture of your parents. So, turn towards Mecca and pray to Allah. Pray to Fatima Bi and Husain Saab. They will bless you. You are now grown up and independent. Usha is getting married next month. My responsibility to both Usha and you is now over.”

  ‘Kashibai’s affection and devotion overwhelmed Rahman, who could not remember his own mother’s face. He prayed to Allah and his parents and then touched Kashibai’s feet. He said, “Avva, you are my ammi. You are my Mecca.”

  ‘Rahman got a job in a BPO in Bangalore and left home. He worked for different firms for a few years, saw growth in his career and started earning a good salary. He met Salma at a friend’s wedding and fell in love with her.