Here, There and Everywhere

by Sudha Murty

  ‘Meena, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘No, the sun is too hot and I get tired if I walk too much. Besides, who says walking is good for health? There’s no proof.’

  That was Meena. She stayed alone in an apartment as her parents lived in Delhi. She was an only child and had the habit of complaining about anything and everything. Naturally, she wasn’t very pleasant company and nobody wanted to visit her. Then one day, Meena was transferred to Bombay and soon we all forgot about her.

  Many years later, I found myself caught in the rain at Bombay’s Flora Fountain. It was pouring and I didn’t have an umbrella. I was standing near Akbarallys, a popular department store, waiting for the rain to subside. Suddenly, I spotted Meena. My first reaction was to run, even in that pouring rain. I was anxious to avoid being seen by her, having to listen to her never-ending complaints. However, I couldn’t escape. She had already seen me and caught hold of my hand warmly. What’s more, she was very cheerful.

  ‘Hey! I am really excited. It’s nice to meet old friends. What are you doing here?’

  I explained that I was in Bombay on official work.

  ‘Then stay with me tonight,’ she said. ‘Let’s chat. Do you know that old wine, old friends and memories are precious and rare?’

  I couldn’t believe it. Was this really Meena? I pinched myself hard to be sure it wasn’t a dream. But Meena was really standing there, right in front of me, squeezing my hand, smiling, and yes, she did look happy. In the three years she had been in Bangalore, I had never once seen her smiling like that. A few strands of grey in her hair reminded me that years had passed. There were a few wrinkles on her face, but the truth was that she looked more attractive than ever before.

  Finally, I managed to say, ‘No, Meena, I can’t stay with you tonight. I have to attend a dinner. Give me your card and I’ll keep in touch with you. I promise.’

  For a moment, Meena looked disappointed. ‘Let’s go and have tea at least,’ she insisted.

  ‘But Meena, it’s pouring.’

  ‘So what? We’ll buy an umbrella and then go to the Grand Hotel,’ she said.

  ‘We won’t get a taxi in this rain,’ I grumbled.

  ‘So what? We’ll walk.’

  I was very surprised. This wasn’t the same Meena I had known. Today, she seemed ready to make any number of adjustments.

  We reached the Grand Hotel drenched. By then the only thought in my mind was to find out who or what had brought about such a change in the pessimistic Meena I had known. I was quite curious.

  ‘Tell me, Meena, is there a Prince Charming who has managed to change you so?’

  Meena was surprised by my question. ‘No, there isn’t anyone like that,’ she said.

  ‘Then what’s the secret of your energy?’ I asked, like Tendulkar does in the ad.

  She smiled. ‘A beggar changed my life.’

  I was absolutely dumbfounded and she could see it.

  ‘Yes, a beggar,’ she repeated, as if to reassure me. ‘He was old and used to stay in front of my house with his five-year-old granddaughter. As you know, I was a chronic pessimist. I used to give my leftovers to this beggar every day. I never spoke to him. Nor did he speak to me. One monsoon day, I looked out of my bedroom window and started cursing the rain. I don’t know why I did that because I wasn’t even getting wet. That day I couldn’t give the beggar and his granddaughter their daily quota of leftovers. They went hungry, I am sure.

  ‘However, what I saw from my window surprised me. The beggar and the young girl were playing on the road because there was no traffic. They were laughing, clapping and screaming joyously, as if they were in paradise. Hunger and rain did not matter. They were totally drenched and totally happy. I envied their zest for life.

  ‘That scene forced me to look at my own life. I realized I had so many comforts, none of which they had. But they had the most important of all assets, one which I lacked. They knew how to be happy with life as it was. I felt ashamed of myself. I even started to make a list of what I had and what I did not have. I found I had more to be grateful for than most people could imagine. That day, I decided to change my attitude towards life, using the beggar as my role model.’

  After a long pause, I asked Meena how long it had taken her to change.

  ‘Once this realization dawned,’ she said, ‘it took me almost two years to put the change into effect. Now nothing matters. I am always happy. I find happiness in every small thing, in every situation and in every person.’

  ‘Did you give any gurudakshina to your guru?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Unfortunately, by the time I understood things, he was dead. But I sponsored his granddaughter to a boarding school as a mark of respect to him.’

  16

  May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Children

  I was on my way to the railway station. I had the nine o’clock Bangalore–Hubli Kittur Express to catch. Halfway to the station our car stopped. There was a huge traffic jam. There was no way we could either move forward or reverse the car. I sat and watched helplessly as a few two-wheelers scraped past the car through a narrow gap. Finally I asked my driver what the matter was. Traffic jams are not uncommon but this was something unusual. He got out of the car and said the road ahead was blocked by some people holding a communal harmony meet. I now realized it was perhaps impossible to get to the station. The papers had reported about the meeting and had warned that the roads would be blocked for some time. The car was moved into a bylane and seeing there was no way I could try and make my way back home, I decided to join the crowd and listen to the speeches.

  From a distance, I could see the dais. There were various religious heads sitting on a row of chairs on the stage. An elderly gentleman stood next to me and commented loudly, ‘All this is just a drama. In India, everything is decided on the basis of caste and community. Even our elections are dictated by them. Whoever comes to power thinks only of the betterment of his community. It is easy to give speeches but in practical life they forget everything.’

  Just then a middle-aged lady started speaking into the mike. From the way she was speaking, so confidently, it was apparent that she was used to giving speeches and had the gift of the gab. Her analogies were quite convincing. ‘When you eat a meal, do you eat only chapattis or rice? No, you also need a vegetable, a dal and some curd. The tastes of the dishes vary, but only when they are put together do you get a wholesome meal. Similarly different communities need to live together in harmony and build a strong country …’ etc.

  ‘It is a nice speech but who follows all this in real life?’ the gentleman next to me commented.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I had to ask finally.

  He looked at me, surprised at my unexpected question, then answered, ‘Because my family has suffered a lot. My son did not get a job as he was not from the right community, my daughter was transferred as her boss wanted to replace her with someone from his own community. It is everywhere. Wherever you go, the first thing people want to know is which caste or religion you belong to.’

  The woman was still talking on the podium. ‘What is her name?’ I asked.

  ‘She is Ambabhavani, a gifted speaker from Tamil Nadu.’

  Her name rang a bell somewhere in my mind and suddenly I was transported away from the jostling crowds and the loud speeches. I was in a time long past, with my paternal grandmother, Amba Bai.

  Amba Bai was affectionately called Ambakka or Ambakka Aai by everyone in the village. She spent her whole life in one little village, Savalagi, near Bijapur in north Karnataka. Like most other women of her generation she had never stepped into a school. She was married early and spent her life fulfilling the responsibilities of looking after a large family. She was widowed early and I always remember seeing her with a shaven head, wearing a red sari, the pallu covering her head always, as was the tradition in the then orthodox Brahmin society. She lived till she was eighty-nine and in her whole life she knew only the worlds of he
r ten children, forty grandchildren, her village and the fields.

  Since we were farmers she owned large mud-houses with cows, horses and buffaloes. There was a large granary and big trees that cooled the house during the hot summers. There were rows of cacti planted just outside the house. They kept out the mosquitoes, we were told. Ajji (that’s what we called Amba Bai) looked after the fields and the farmers with a passion. In fact, I don’t recall her ever spending too much time in the kitchen making pickles or sweets like other grandmothers. She would be up early and after her bath spend some time doing her daily puja. She would make some jowar chapattis and a vegetable, and then head out to the fields. She would spend time there talking to the farmers about the seeds they had got, the state of the well or the health of their cattle. Her other passion in life was to help the women of the village deliver their babies.

  Though I did not realize this till I was a teenager, Ajji was most unlike an orthodox Brahmin widow. She was very much for women’s education, family planning and had much to say about the way society treated widows.

  Those days there were few facilities available to the villages. There were a handful of medical colleges and not every taluk had a government hospital. In this scenario women who had borne children were the only help to others during childbirth. My grandmother was one of them. She was very proud of the fact that she had delivered ten perfectly healthy children, all of whom survived. And in turn, she would help others during their delivery, irrespective of caste or community. She always had a word of advice or a handy tip for the pregnant women of the village.

  I would often hear such nuggets of wisdom from her.

  ‘Savitri, be careful. Don’t lift heavy articles. Eat well and drink more milk.’

  ‘Peerambi, you have had two miscarriages. Be careful this time. Eat lots of vegetables and fruits. You should be careful but don’t sit idle. Pregnancy is not a disease. You should be active. Do some light work. Send your husband Hussain to my house. I will give some sambar powder. My daughter-in-law prepares it very well.’

  Of course, not everyone appreciated her advising them. One such person was Shakuntala Desai, who had stayed in the city for some time and had gone to school. ‘What does Ambakka know about these things?’ she would comment loudly. ‘Has she ever gone to school or read a medical book? She is not a doctor.’

  But Ajji would be least bothered by these comments. She would only laugh and say, ‘Let that Shakuntala get pregnant. I will deliver the baby. My four decades of experience is better than any book!’

  My father’s job took us to various towns to live in, but we always came to Ajji’s village during the holidays. They were joyous days and we would enjoy ourselves thoroughly.

  Once, when we were at the village, there was a wedding in the neighbouring village. Ajji always refused to attend these social gatherings. That time, I too decided to stay back with her and one night there was only Ajji, me and our helper Dyamappa in that large house.

  It was an unusually cold, moonless winter night in December. It was pitch dark outside. Ajji and I were sleeping together. Dyamappa had spread his bed on the front veranda and was fast asleep. For the first time that night, I saw Ajji remove her pallu from her head and the wisps of grey hair on her head. She touched them and said, ‘Society has such cruel customs. Would you believe that I once had thick long plaits hanging down my back? How I loved my hair and what a source of envy it was for the other girls! But the day your grandfather died, no one even asked my permission before chopping off that beautiful hair. I cried as much for my hair as for my husband. No one understood my grief. Tell me, if a wife dies, does the widower keep his head shaved for the rest of his life? No, within no time he is ready to be a groom again and bring home another bride!’

  At that age, I could not understand her pain, but now, when I recall her words, I realize how helpless she must have felt.

  After some time she changed her topic. ‘Our Peerambi is due any time. I think it will be tonight. It is a moonless night after all. Peerambi is good and pious, but she is so shy, I am sure she will not say anything to anyone till the pain becomes unbearable. I have been praying for her safe delivery to our family deity Kallolli Venkatesha and also at the Peer Saab Darga in Bijapur. Everyone wants sons, but I do hope there is a girl this time. Daughters care for parents wherever they are. Any woman can do a man’s job but a man cannot do a woman’s job. After your Ajja’s death, am I not looking after the entire farming? Akkavva, always remember women have more patience and common sense. If only men realized that …’

  Ajji had so many grandchildren she found it hard to remember all their names. So she would call all her granddaughters ‘Akkavva’ and grandsons ‘Bala’.

  As Ajji rambled on into the night, there was a knock on the door. Instinctively Ajji said, ‘That must be Hussain.’ And indeed it was. Ajji covered her head again and forgetting her griefs about widowhood, she asked quickly, ‘Is Peerambi in labour?’

  ‘Yes, she has had the pains since this evening.’

  ‘And you are telling me now? You don’t understand how precious time is when a woman is in labour. Let us go now. Don’t waste any more time.’

  She started giving instructions to Hussain and Dyamappa simultaneously.

  ‘Hussain, cut the cactus, take a few sprigs of neem. Dyamappa, you light two big lanterns …

  ‘Akkavva, you stay at home. Dyamappa will be with you. I have to hurry now.’

  She was gathering some things from her room and putting them into her wooden carry-box. By that time, the huge Dyamappa, with his large white turban on his head and massive moustaches appeared at the door bearing two lanterns. In the pitch darkness he made a terrifying picture and immediately brought to my mind the Ravana in the Ramayana play I had seen recently. There was no way I was going to stay alone in the house with him! I insisted I wanted to go with Ajji.

  Ajji was impatient. ‘Akkavva, don’t be adamant. After all, you are a teenage girl now. You should not see these things. I will leave you at your friend Girija’s house.’ But like any other teenager, I was adamant and would not budge from my decision.

  Finally Ajji gave up. She went to the puja room, said a quick prayer and locked the house behind her. The four of us set off in pitch darkness to Hussain’s house. Hussain lead the way with a lantern, Ajji, with me clutching on to her hand, followed, and Dyamappa brought up the rear, carrying the other lantern.

  We made our way across the village. Ajji walked with ease while I stumbled beside her. It was cold and I did not know the way. All the time Ajji kept up a constant stream of instructions for Hussain and Dyamappa.

  ‘Hussain, when we reach, fill the large drums with water. Dyamappa will help you. Boil some water. Burn some coal. Put all the chickens and lambs in the shed. See that they don’t come wandering around …’

  Finally we reached Hussain’s house. Peerambi’s cries of pain could be heard coming from inside.

  Hussain and Peerambi lived alone. They were poor farm labourers who worked on daily wages. Their neighbour Mehboob Bi was there, attending to Peerambi.

  Seeing Ajji, she looked relieved. ‘Now there is nothing to worry. Ambakka Aai has come.’

  Ajji washed her feet and hands and went inside the room with her paraphernalia, slamming the doors and windows shut behind her. Outside on the wooden bench, Hussain and Dyamappa sat awaiting further instructions from Ajji. I was curious to find out what would happen next.

  Inside, I could hear Ajji speaking affectionately to Peerambi. ‘Don’t worry. Delivery is not an impossible thing. I have given birth to ten children. Just cooperate and I will help you. Pray to God to give you strength. Don’t lose courage …’ In between, she opened the window partly and told Hussain, ‘I want some turmeric powder. I can’t search in your house. Get it from Mehboob Bi’s house. Dyamappa, give me one more big bowl of boiling water. Hussain, take a new cane tray, clean it with turmeric water and pass it inside. Dyamappa, I want some more burning coal …’

>   The pious, gentle Ajji was a dictator now!

  The next few hours were punctuated by Peerambi’s anguished cries and Ajji’s patient, consoling words, while Hussain sat outside tense and Dyamappa nonchalantly smoked a bidi. The night got dark and then it started getting lighter and lighter. The cock, locked in its coop, crowed and with the rising sun we heard the sounds of a baby’s crying.

  Ajji opened one windowpane and announced, ‘Hussain, you are blessed with a son. He looks just like your father, Mohammed Saab. Peerambi had a tough time but God is kind. Mother and child are both safe and healthy.’

  S-l-a-a-m … the door shut again. But this time outside we grinned at each other in joy. Hussain knelt down and said a prayer of thanks. Then he jumped up and knocked on the door, wanting to see the baby. It remained shut. Ajji was not entertaining any visitors till she was done.

  ‘Your clothes are dirty,’ she shouted from inside. ‘First have a bath, wear clean clothes and then come in, otherwise you will infect the baby and mother.’

  Hussain rushed to the bathroom, which was just a thatched partition and poured buckets of clean water from the well on to himself.

  Even after he rushed in, I could hear only Ajji’s voice. ‘Peerambi, my work is over. I have to rush home. Today is my husband’s death ceremony. There are many rituals to be completed. The priests will arrive any time and I have to help them. I will leave now and if you want anything, send word through Hussain.

  ‘Peerambi, to a woman, delivering a baby is like going to the deathbed and waking up again. Be careful. Mehboob Bi, please keep Peerambi’s room clean. Don’t put any new clothes on the baby. They will hurt him. Wrap him in an old clean dhoti. Don’t kiss the baby on his lips. Don’t show the baby to everybody. Don’t keep touching him. Boil the drinking water and immerse an iron ladle in that. Peerambi should drink only that water. I will send a pot of home-made ghee and soft rice and rasam for Peerambi to eat … Now I have to go. Bheemappa is supposed to come and clean the garden today. If I am late, he will run away …’