Picture perfect
Nanima sitting in her chair wearing a blue-green floral print saree, a single bronze bangle on her right arm, square black-rimmed specs, Nanaji standing next to her, blue striped short kurta, brown, leather-strap watch on his left wrist, wearing glasses, looking sharp as always, clean shaven, probably smelling of Old Spice and Boroline. Both looking sheepishly at the cake in front of them and towards each other, Nanaji wearing a grin on his face. Snow white hair, with traces of former black on both. What must have they been thinking, feeling?
It’s just the pictures. At the moment Nanaji takes hold of Nanima’s hand as they together cut the cake. It looks like a black forest with thick frosting and a plump cherry on the top. There are four small candles, all of different colors, red, blue, orange and pink. Nanima has one palm on the table to support herself up. She stands looking haggard and out of breath. She has a smile to her face, though at the other times I would have expected her to say something quippy, unabashed. Nanaji would turn crimson cheeked, in a reflux begin to stop her and then realizing the futility of his attempt, withdraw. People all around would crack up at her jest. I have always thought Nanima to be spirited and full of wit and vigour, whimsical and tempestuous as the Eastern winds (Purabiya as she used to call it).
I have seen the monochrome photographs from the earlier times, inside the glass cabinet, a confident looking fair young woman, sitting straight backed, nicely filled out. Today, she has shrunk in her clothes, I can see her collar bones, her shoulders seem frail now, her hands are bony, all flesh has disappeared. Chemo seems to have taken its toll. She still smiles her gleeful smile, her beautiful thin lips parted, the two upper front teeth have disappeared, I can see the gap between the two canines, heart all opened up. Nanima usually tells people what’s in her heart, she often has a lot to tell.
A well of stories – Dastangoi
Wo naani kee baaton mein pariyon ka dera
Jagjit Singh
Wo chehre ke jhuriyon mein sadiyon ka phera
Wo choti see raatein wo lambi kahaani
We have heard the greatest number of stories from Nanima. Almost every summer evening for about an hour we sat out on the Verandah, on the wooden cot under open skies or next to her on a chair in the long dark corridor leading to Nanaji’s room. We sat next to the cloth-stand, looking out the white grill, the branches of a pomegranate tree, past the two curving coconut trees grazing our boundary walls, towering endlessly and beyond them a grassy weedy field to Meera Talkies, one of the only two cinema halls in the town and for us in the world. Over the frenzy of movie goers, the ending of one show and the beginning of another, the ruckus at the ticket booking counters and songs crooning from the theaters, Nanima’s voice rose and fell through, as she wove tales of hapless birds and magical fairies and princes and witches.
She would tell us stories in Maithili switching to Hindi from time to time. We heard almost the same familiar ones every summer with some new additions. At times we would move up the unlit terrace, spread out the jute mat and lie down, counting stars and hearing tales about constellations, particularly Saptarishi (The seven stars of the big dipper). We got to know from her, why Indra (the king of devas and heaven) was cursed? How Chunmuniya (the sparrow) got free? Why do all the households in Nehra, her ancestral home, have choolha (stoves) facing south (this one has ghosts)? How did Bharti, the wife of the scholar Mandan Mishra defeat Shankaracharya? These stories, a pail taken out each summer evening, lived on in us, making us the bearer of those stories, emissaries let out into the world.
Jekro chinma kheliye ge bhaiya
The Story of chunmuniya
Seho pakadne jae che
Parvat muhar pe khota re khota baccha bhukhal mare che
(O brother, the one whose grains I have eaten has caught me,
Up on the mountains I have a nest, my children there are dying of hunger)
We sing and neatly put the night away
We have a swing out front on the verandah, front of the flower bed that runs along the backside wall and turns the corner. It has wooden clapboards painted green and the ornate iron frame painted red. A mild sweet fragrance wafts from the night blooming jasmine (parijaat/raat-ki-rani) and fills the air. The dark summer evenings turn magical with fireflies gliding and glowing, green-yellow, blinking as stars, pulsing on and off, over ledges, from behind the plants in pots & flower bed and over the porch-shed and terrace. We would sit there gently rocking the swing. Nanima would feel nauseated and sit in front, on the cot, under the porch-shed, oval overhead lamp flooding her in bright yellow, insects swarming and popping. As the evening would age, we would begin with playing place names, country capital and invariably end up with Antakshari. The songs skipped generations, there were the unheard-of old ones, some I suspect Nanima sang only for Nanaji, then some usual suspects from the 80’s and 90’s, songs from the yesteryears and contemporaries that would be quick on our tongues, songs we stole from the running theatres and then there were the ones we made up to suit our needs. The singing would be punctuated with endless talk, teasing, arguments and earnest laughter that flowed over the constant hum of household work, the sputtering of generators from the theatres and the clattering of handpump in the background, the squeak of its iron hinges and the splaying of water. We would push the swing further and further away until it would level with the backside wall, with Hotel Vijaya in sight and out beyond to touch the summer sky.
Our household would fold up around Nanima, assembled uncles and aunts, mama, mami, mausi, their cousins and our cousins, neighborhood kids, evening guests and domestic help. There would be a kerosene laced lantern placed nearby in the corner, on a stool, the old book shelf or the cot. Having electricity even for a small while was a luxury, never in one stretch, an hour at most in the evenings. There were two feeders to plug into, Gangjala (low-voltage) and Town (high-voltage). We often got to know standing at the base of the steps leading up the terrace and looking in the direction of the sprawling town, seeing which end was lit. There were nights we got lucky and could see our dinner. Most nights I dreaded eating insects. Whenever we had electricity with decent voltage and were sufficiently tired of singing songs and talking, we sat with Nanima in front of the television box, thumping remote and sifting through countless channels searching for movies. Though earlier in the day we would already have skimmed through the program listings page in the two regional dailies. Nanaji would drop in and out of the room with an old cranky radio in his hand. At times he would be lighting up mosquito coils and placing it underneath beds or the blue dining table. The night would grow upon me as I would slump against the bolsters with sleep lidded eyes and vacation fatigued legs, dreaming already of a new dawn and the plentiful to be done.
Morning tea and the many breakfasts
Plucking flowers for Nanima’s puja was one of the most exciting early morning summer activities to look forward to. It would be cool and breezy outside, stirring chirrups from the many trees around and a gray-turning-blue sky. House would still be opening its sleep crusted eyes and stretching its cat paws. We would head downstairs before sunrise, a wicker or brass basket in our hands to gather dew glistened flowers in. We would climb over the campus brick wall and then if no one was watching, monkey up the branches of a Kaner tree (Yellow Oleander). There would be blue bells to the other side of the wall, shockingly blue and a guard who would start shouting if he were to spot us trespassing. Our side would have red and pink roses, sunflower, marigold, bougainvillea and hibiscus (shoe flower). Once done we would make a race upstairs, hollering and eating cold flawless air, small feet leaping in giant strides, slapping the ground hard and springing up the stair steps. Anil bhaiya would almost always beat us to it. Tinkle of bells, rattle of his bicycle and clink of cans, Ramesh mama would come bringing milk from his village. It would soon be time for our family to gather round for strongly brewed morning tea. A tray with tea cups and glasses would arrive, Nanaji would take his tea sugarless, Mami and me would have a sugary syrup. Us kids would have Nice biscuits, sugar sprinkled or the bourbon or arrowroot biscuits (that I absolutely hate) to go along with the tea. Nibbling upon the biscuits dunked in hot tea, us dipping, them crumbling would be one of the delicious innocent joys of life. It would be followed with bread and hard-boiled eggs or maggi, and that would only be the first of the breakfasts. We would join Nanaji for fruits and mangoes (don’t club them in one), chhena, dahi chura which he would forcibly make us eat and sweets. Nanima would prepare for us her famous, paper thin rice chapatis to be had with tomato pickle chutney. All of us then sat together either on the floor or outside on the cot, two big thalis spread out in front, eight to ten people gathered around, attacking chura bhujja (rice flakes) fried in ghee, or puffed rice mixed in mustard oil and salt and a big bowl of salad of onion, cucumber, chickpea and moong sprouts. As I have long suspected, ours is a family that believes in eating its troubles away. With tummies filled to the brim and a content purring heart, we would prepare ourselves to laze through the day. Such were our summer customs, long slow days and long-lasting family rituals, unspoken of, expected and reliable.
Nanima has college and an ocean at the end of the lawn
On certain days, Nanaji would drop us off to Nanima’s college (Ramesh Jha Mahila College). The rust red gates would be thrown wide open and 3-4 people would rush forward in salutation and greetings to help her out. Our car, a blue Maruti Suzuki 800, would trundle over the dirt & brick road to a stop under a copse of trees. A bunch of keys would jangle and the old brown doors to the Principal’s office would be flung open. Single storied classroom and office blocks were arranged around the grassy field in a more or less rectangular fashion. Paint chipping off the white washed walls, parts crumbling to reveal the concrete underneath. About 100 metres straight from the Principal’s office, within a circular fencing was the statue of the founder, our grandfather (Bade Nanaji, Nanaji’s elder brother). I don’t clearly remember but I think he had his black specs on and was in his characteristic white topi. Once I had tried to sketch his likeness. Now that I look back, I had done a really poor job, nonetheless it won me a Chinese checkers. Once inside Nanima’s office, I would love to prance about and fiddle with her things. It was a place of authority, with important registers to be signed, stacks of papers and paper weights, many coloured pens and pen stands, wired telephone and a magic bell. You pressed it and people came running into the room. There was an attached mystery room, that had served as her retiring quarters. It had a small bed and a refrigerator that opened up to water bottles, and a lot of vacuous disappointment. A small window overlooked the grassy slope down to the front wall lined with trees. We used to get our school books along for summer homework. Nanima would always slip us some of her own books to read. That’s how I read her memoir, a collection of Premchand’s short stories, stories of Manto and one summer, a hefty and voluminous copy of Mahabharata. At times she would give us work, texts to be translated from Hindi to English or Sanskrit and vice-versa.
One of the fondest memories I have of us together is the tinkling of bells, Nanima handing over a bunch of rolled up notes, a tricycle outside the gates and atop it a red square box, cold white air escaping the heavy lid, dark scrawny hands searching and magically producing three short sticks of milky white Kulfi. Nanima, my sister and me bit into our summer noon delight, fuming, sweet and milky. Must not have been more than Rupee 5 a piece and yet I believe it to be the best Kulfi I’ve had.
At the opposite end to the Principal’s office, on the far side of the lawn, there was a break between the two blocks. A spirited black dog with white spots mostly had a free run of the place and would merrily bounce about snapping at us. When it wasn’t around, we would romp across and go exploring to the other side. There would be zig-zagging dragon flies and dancing butterflies and sprightly squirrels keeping company with us across the lawn. The space sloped downwards to a small pool that shimmered in the bright daylight. It was muddy and surrounded by brambles and blowdowns, broken twigs, a few mango trees and a couple of litchi trees. We would pluck litchi, eat the pulp and throw the seeds into the pond. Regardless of what one says there’s no substitute to and much merit and joy in not having to do anything.
Twilight
The sun would still be hot and bright and sharp in the eyes. I would wait by the handpump for Anil bhaiya to do the dishes and come play with me. Bat and ball would be out, ball most times would be bright coloured plastic balls, neon or green or red. We would hit it in wayward directions, up the terrace and over it, backside beyond our boundary walls, on the left over the flower bed and down into the neighbouring fields, straight out of sight, past the premises, into our small farm. Rest of our time was spent finding and fetching it back. We often went searching for one and came back with another. Some other days, it would be a game of hopscotch with my sisters or seven stones or hide and seek.
Nanima in the meantime would prepare for us bel juice (stone apple fruit), ice-cold and sweet, yellow-orange, served in transparent glasses that we would gulp down in breathless quick swigs, making long twisted faces. Certain evenings we would be greeted to the brimming frothy glasses of familiar old Mango shake. Mangoes would be a dime a dozen, picked fresh from our farms, ripe ones spread out on jute sacks underneath Nanaji’s bed, and those yet to ripen would be kept covered in hay, in carton boxes, in the dark, stuffy store room, the cob webbed, dust gathering corner room with old moldy newspapers, grain barrels, trunks with blankets and winter clothes, my old yellow tricycle and the looming long shadows and hidden demons.
As the sun would go down, we would bring out the hose pipe or draw water from the handpump and my sister and I would take turns to sprinkle water over the flowers and the summer baked earth, taking in the mild scent of the wet verandah.
If a day had to become night, that was a beautiful way. (Who are you, little i: E. E. Cummings)
Super Granny
“On a million hillsides the girl ran, on a million bridges the girl chose, on a million paths the woman stood…
Terry Pratchett
All different, all one.
All she could do for all of them was be herself..”
Ma, Nanima, Nanu & Dadu has always been close to us kids, forever indulgent. She’s read out books to us, listened to my recitations, sat down for grammar sessions, nail-painted my sisters, pampered us with delicious dishes and raised a lot of kids.
We have seen her cool-self glide gracefully from generation to generation. She was quick to learn computer and have a mail id, use word document and the one among us all kids to play songs first on PC. She was the first to learn texting when mobile arrived. She was the first to have a social media account. I remember her being cross when I did not accept her friend request. She was quick to switch to a smartphone and come on Whatsapp about the same time as us. She’s been toe to toe with tech advancements and has either taught herself or learnt from her grandkids.
She still takes a keen interest in all our lives, often speaks her mind and has been goading me to have a girlfriend for as long as I can remember. For us she’s always donned several hats, the house-in-chief, college principal, masterchef, summer play friend, master story teller and our ultimate refuge. When you were running away from discipline, Ma and Nanaji and had to break about a dozen rules and routine, you approached Nanima. When you had to go to the theatres, when you had to skip the afternoon nap or when you had to stay up late at night, watching movies, you approached Nanima.
She’s been a huge influence on us all. My mama and me take reading and writing from her, she’s behind all our unbridled optimism and I suspect she’s the reason lip runs in the family.
To top it all off, somewhere hidden in there is a gold medal Nanima received graduating, sometime in the 60’s.
When you are a child, there are days of endless summer, the slow summer of dreams. Same as the year before, same the year after. Familiar people, familiar places, abundance of warmth and love and laughter, endless run across the faraway fields, small fists and in them endless clumps of grass and stars. Then one morning you wake up and the lingering long summer ends, sudden and abrupt. You’ve grown up, the places are left far behind and the people you loved so dearly have suddenly grown old. However hard you try, you aren’t able to hold on to the summer any longer, the promising summer of the old never comes back.
Somesh | Katyayan 