My Mother: Memories
Mumbai, July 26, 2005, the skies had been ominously laden since morning, by 3:00 p.m. the deluge had started, in earnest; the 4-lane highway, across our home, was slowly filling up. I called my sister,
“Come home, or else you will need a boat.”
“We have people as far away as Kalyan; I will leave as soon as the HR decides, I will call once I leave.”
We live in Matunga/Wadala, Char Rasta, about fifteen minutes drive from Dadar, where my sister worked.
“Has she left?” my mother asked.
“She will come soon, Awwa (as we called her) don’t worry, there are others in the office,” I reassured her.
By 6:00 p.m. the roads had disappeared under a sea of water, all traffic plying on the road had stopped. The suburban railway network, life line of Mumbai had ground to a halt. The rain was coming down in sheets.
My sister had not called. I picked up the phone, and the line was dead. I tried to reach her on her mobile…. ‘not reachable’ was what I heard.
My mother’s cup of 4 o’clock tea remained untouched.
*****
My mother, Shivaganga Shankar Dhekne, was born, on April 3rd 1921 into a family who lived in a three-storey mansion, her father being the chief auditor to one of the biggest corporate houses of that time.
When girls seldom went to school, she would be driven to school in a horse-drawn carriage. During festival times, their house was the cynosure of the entire city, with snaking queues to pay obeisance to the deity in whose honour the festival was being celebrated.
She was a princess in her father’s house; the only thing she knew of cooking, was during mealtimes when food was brought to the table.
On June 6th 1935, not yet fifteen, she married my father, a tall handsome gentleman, without a square inch of land to his name, in times when wealth was measured in terms of acreage of agricultural land one owned.
In the kitchen of her new home, she and her sister-in-law all of thirteen, were like the proverbial bull in the china shop. Those were the days of wood-fired stoves (that blew smoke into your eyes) and clay pots, none of the fancy gas cooking ranges or non-stick vessels.
In interest of family’s health, her father-in-law employed the services of a cook. (My father had lost his mother and stepmother at a very young age, after which my grandfather never married…not for a dearth of proposals)
In the evening, with the household chores done, the two girls and their multitudes of cousins would play cards (which were considered highly immoral). They would play until they heard the approaching footsteps of my grandfather, then the cards got shoved under the carpet, and the girls made a dash to the nether side of the kitchen, whilst the boys would bring out the slates and books.
*****
It was 9:00 pm the compound was no longer visible, and water was seeping into the flat on the ground floor. The roads were knee deep in water. Still there was no word from my sister. I cleared the uneaten dinner.
Television news channel reported flooding and showed pictures of office goers trudging through water as they made their way home to distant suburbs. My mother sat on the sofa with prayer beads in her hand.
*****
My father was reading law in a different city and came home only during holidays. She would hide behind one of the pillars in the pooja (prayer) room and call out to him, aho…. It was not appropriate to be seen speaking to one’s husband and a lady never ever addressed her husband by his name!
Husband and wife left their hometown, when my father’s job brought them to Mumbai.
My mother learnt to cook from recipe books. She was a perfectionist. She excelled. Her ladoos were perfect globes all equally sized, her chapattis, rounds that could have been drawn with a compass. Their one room home gleamed with precisely arranged brass vessels and neatly kept household effects.
She was the strength behind my father as he climbed the corporate ladder. Then we were born, twins after fourteen years of marriage, where my father spoilt us, indulged us, bringing us whatever, we desired. It was
Awwa who ensured that we were set on the right growing-up track.
She enrolled in an English medium school, and saw to it that we acquired skills such as dancing, swimming and all other things' girls are supposed to do and have.
*****
It was past midnight. I woke up with a start, and I must have dozed off. My mother was unseeingly watching the television beaming pictures of rains lashing the city and its hapless citizens, sitting ramrod straight on her sofa.
“Awwa, try and get some sleep.” I said.
“I am alright”. “Do you want some tea?” I asked.
“No, I am alright”.
We stood for sometime on the balcony overlooking the road, watching people as they waded through water.
Some good Samaritans were handing out bottled water and biscuits.
*****
My mother, who came from a conservative background, never stopped us from attending parties when we were in college, she only stipulated we went in a group, that we gave her a contact telephone number where we were and that someone would drop us back home. When our friends came visiting, or we had parties, she shopped; she cooked and had as much fun as we had.
Once on our way to the market, she tripped and fell, she had a bloodied nose. We walked to the clinic of our family doctor, X-ray revealed a fracture, not once had she complained of pain. Back home, she continued as though nothing had happened.
“Awwa, why don’t you rest?”
“And let you do the chores all by yourself.”
Her only drawback was that she could never express herself, what she said and what she wanted to say were poles apart, which meant we always ended up arguing.
Our bone of contention was that she did not love us as Papa did. She cared more about keeping the house; of which she was justifiably proud; more than us. We could not have been more wrong.
*****
It was 4:00 am when the key turned in the lock, I had fallen asleep. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I saw my sister walk in. My mother still sat on the sofa. We were talking, laughing, remonstrating all at once, all together. Only after my sister had retired for the night, did my mother lie down and rest her head on the pillow. She was all of 83 years.
*****
Author’s note
The Mumbai floods of 26 July, 2005 when the city came to a standstill, in which 1,094 people died. Large numbers of people were stranded on the road, lost their homes, and many walked for long distances back home from work that evening. The floods were caused by the eighth heaviest ever-recorded 24-hour rainfall figure of 994 mm (39.1 inches) which lashed the metropolis.
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