My other mother

She came into my life when I was a year and a half old. With green tattoos on her forehead and forearm, nauwari (Maharashtrian nine yard sari), and cherubic moon face, she wafted in to our home, becoming an integral part of our lives for the next 20 years.

 

She had had a dismal life, and like most women of her times, never questioned but accepted her fate. She was married off at a very young age, as was common those days. Within a year, she had a son, who didn’t live beyond a few months and shortly, her husband followed suit. Considering her to be ill-fated, the in-laws threw her out. Already bereft of a mother, now widowed and childless, she had no place to go.

Luckily, her married older sister took her in and found her a job as a nanny. And when the family didn’t need her services anymore, she came to live with us as both my parents were working and needed someone to look after me. She soon endeared herself to all, friends and family, with her garrulous and affectionate nature.

We were bowled over by her culinary skills; she even mastered our South Indian cuisine, alien to her until then. I can still picture her sitting on the floor , turning the grinding stone with one hand and shoving rice and lentils with the other  until the two coagulated together to form a smooth batter of dosa, the quintessential South Indian delicacy.

She was my sole companion for five years until my sister came along. It was heartening to see the special bond she shared with my sister, having attended to her from the day she was born. One day, when my sister came home with a split forehead and blood pouring down her face (after being accidently hit by a swinging cricket bat), it was hard to tell who cried more.

She is now around 85 years old, suffering the brutalities of old-age, but still remembers every member of our extended family and enquires about each one of them by name. When we visit her in Bombay, where she now lives with her grand-nephew, she proudly calls the neighbours to come see her daughters.