Jyoti Visits Bakshiwala

Our village, a place forever entrenched in my mind as home, is like a world on Mars for our kids. The first time we took Jyoti to the village was in 1982 winter and she was five years old. I had taken her there a few times before, when she was a few months old and we still lived in Chandigarh, India, but that obviously does not count. When Jyoti was six months old we moved to America and it took us a few years before we were able to visit Bakshiwala again. Going from the eleventh floor apartment of a twenty-two story high-rise apartment building in downtown Detroit, Jyoti had no concept of a world with mud houses, outdoor kitchens, clay ovens and cow chips lined narrow lanes populated by turbaned men and salwar-kameezed women speaking punjabi only and living amidst buffaloes, cows, goats and hens. She spent the first day watching wide eyed and recording everything like a digital camcorder, then internalised and adopted it all within twenty-four hours as if she had been born to it (which she had).

We started our journey in New Delhi. My parents have settled there after retirement. My mother, Biji, refused to move to the village permanently. New Delhi, India's capital, with its modern amenities and relative distance from the in-laws seemed quite attractive to Biji. Papaji too liked it but for completely different reasons. He loved the overstocked libraries, large bookstores, politically charged environment of the capital city and the opportunity to work as an investment broker. The last one was the clincher of course. Jyoti remembered their home from our previous visit, two years before, and loved the attention an only grandchild gets. My family halted their daily life for those few days and lived to please her. Many relatives from near and far came to meet us. The local families invited us for lunches and dinners. Due to shortage of number of days we accepted some breakfast invitations too. Jyoti met new relatives every few hours. People walked in and out of her busy day at a dizzying pace. She took it all in and kept her world stable by concentrating on a few persons only and using the rest to formulate a general impression of the "Indians". She did not see herself as one of them. Our closely knit family, to her, was like people passing by on an escalator that is going the opposite way. She was interested in them and waved and smiled at them but they did not become part of her mamory bank.

The village is about 150 miles from Delhi and can be reached by a bus, train or car. We decided to rent a car and visit Chandigarh, the city Jyoti was born in, on the way. Biji's parental home is there and Papaji's two sisters also live there. Sachi and I met while working in this city's Post Graduate Institue of Medicine (PGI) and have many friends living there. We spent the two days there meeting all these friends and relatives and showing Jyoti places from our old life, including the room and table she was born on. She was only mildly interested. She had more fun playing with my cousins Meenu and Harry, Billoo's children.

At the end of the second day we piled up in the rental car and headed for the village. The four seater car was holding six people, Sachi, Jyoti and me, Papai and Bablee who had accompanied us from Delhi and the driver. Last minute papaJi's older sister, my aunt Kumari BhuaJi, decided to join us. So we scooted over and made room for her. The twenty five miles flew by in no time. BhuaJi regaled us with many stories, some family legends and some loosely mythalogical in nature, all hilarious. Jyoti spent the ride staring from one face to the other. We were speaking in Punjabi and she could understand only a word here and there. Laughing loudly and gesturing wildly for effect in that crowded space we must have looked like people of a seperate breed to her. At one point, trying to be heard over our cacaphony, she loudly enquired,

"Whose house are we going to now?"

On being told, "To grandma's home" she wanted to know

"What color is she?"

This unexpected query led to another burst of hilarity which dumbfoundedly she joined in too. Coming from a socially segregated world of black and white America Jyoti was confounded by the many shades of skin within our families, something that we were totally oblivious to.

Four miles from our village is the city of Rajpura, sitting right on the GT Road, which goes to our village. We stopped there to visit Mohinder Chacha Ji, papaji's youngest brother, who had, some time back, moved to this city from the village. He was surprised but very gald to see us. He insisted that we have dinner there. He also encouraged us to spend the night in his house. He informed us that Babaji (PapaJi's eldest brother) and chotte (junior) bhabi Ji were out of town for couple of days. Only vadhe (senior) bhabi ji, my grandmother, was at home in the village. But we wanted to be home that night. So sleepy and subdued but determined we crowded back into the car. Mohinder chacha ji decided to accompany us. So we scooted over some more and sitting on each other's lap started for the village. By now it was almost midnight. Rural punjab, full of hard working, early rising farmers sleeps early. The way was dark and deserted. Instead of taking the narrow dirt pathway off of GT Road we opted for the round about but wider gravel road. It took us into the village from the opposite side, car's bright lights piercing the homogenous darkness to rudely shine on startled buffaloes and sleeping neighbors. We drove over fertiliser piles and deep ditches, sorely excercising our abs, before reaching home. Our car stopped outside the back gate. The house is walled-in on all sides with a five foot high brick wall and has two gates, one in the front and one in the back. The one in the back is industrial style and wide to let the tractor, bullack cart and milk cows in. At this time it was padlocked. We banged on it, shook it, rattled it, but of no use. Finally chacha Ji climbed over it and jumped inside. Papa Ji did the same. The rest of us stood outside calling bhabi ji, and rousing the next door houses. Jyoti stood amongst us, holding her barbie doll wrapped in her blanket, with wide eyes that refused to get sleepy. Chachaji went to bhabi ji's bedroom window and banged on it. A black mongrel, Kalu, limped over from the front of the house to stand by chachaji. Kalu has been with us for many years. He is semi adopted by the family. Babaji likes him and feeds him lunch and dinner scraps. Bhabi ji hates him with vengence and chases him out everytime he tries to get in. So Kalu enjoys the best of both worlds, assured of food like a family dog and free to roam the village like a stray dog. After loud bangings the bedroom window opened a sliver and we heard bhabiji inquire,

"Who is it?".

Chachaji yelled back, "Bhabi! open the door. You know who it is for God's sake!!".

"These are dangerous times. Give me your name before I let loose my dog".

Chacha ji looked down on Kalu wagging his tail and answered, "$ % *#@!, Mohinder"

"I know no Mohinder- Shohinder. Go back and come in the morning. The man of the house is not home and I am not going to open the door."

"Bhabi ! @%$#*! for the love of God! Brother Baldev is here with family. Don't make me break this door in the middle of the night".

"Mohinder who?"

I saw papaji doubled over, holding his stomach and laughing histerically. Bhuaji next to me started reciting, in tenor, the first verse from the holy book. The darkness made us feel like we were in a claustrophobic cave. I wiggled inside through the metal bars of the gate. Bablee soon followed. Sachi with jyoti in his arms stayed out, along with bhuaji and the driver.

Chachaji looked like he was ready to pull his hair. I heard him mutter something obnoxious under his breath but reply in a controlled voice,

"This is Mohinder! Your son".

"My sons have better sense than to show up at this ungodly hour. Get scarce!!"

At this point I stepped in front of chachaji and through the window called bhabi ji. The side door soon flew open and we were all let in. After hugs and kisses and some more laughter we settled down. The big room was cluttered with charpais (jute cots) that had been hastily brought in for everyone to sit on. Jyoti sat cross legged on one, tightly leaning against me. Bhabi ji was trying to shoo Kalu, who had cunningly slipped inside during the 'welcoming ritual of paripana and blessings'. She had a light brown knitted shawl on her head and shoulders and was holding a chair with which she was trying to scare Kalu out. Kalu was weaving in and out through the cots and trying to delay the eviction. I found Jyoti furiously chewing her barbie's head and closely following bhabi ji's every move. Bhabi ji's sole surviving incisor was visible in an otherwise empty mouth and she was making angry noises while running after a deceptively innocent looking Kalu. The room was poorly lit and had an intimate homey feel for me. Jyoti had a different opinion of course. She pulled at my sleeve and asked me in an incredible voice, "Mom! Is your grandma a witch?". Mohinder chachaji, sitting on the nearby cot, heard it and amidst thigh thumping laughter answered, "Yes! Yes!! She is". To me on the side he whispered, "Are'nt you glad bhabi can't understand your fancy shmancy American daughter's pashto (indecipherable language)!".

Next morning Jyoti woke up early and explored the whole house, inside and out, from the arms of doting Mohinder chachaji. She was most fascinated by the orange tree with many oranges hanging from it. We do not grow oranges in our village and baba ji's unusual fruit laden tree was a novelty for us too. The children of the village came in hordes to our house that day to see the girl "who speaks only English" and to get some 'Amreeki' candy. Jyoti was too young to be finicky about language or any other difference between her and the villagers and was soon roaming the neighborhood following and followed by the kids. I had changed into my village clothes and looked just like everyone else. I felt relaxed with the knowledge of belonging to that place. Sachi, being the sun-in-law, was wined and dined and pampered and in general prevented from settling down while being encouraged to "feel at home please". Jyoti, with her spotless new Jordache jeans, her favourite micky-mouse sunglasses and sparkling white (for the first few hours) sneakers stood out amidst bare footed, half clothed, turbaned boys and hand-me-down clothed, shy girls of her age; not that she noticed though. She came home after hours of play with them, having learnt (without any effort) many key words of punjabi.

Mere two days later, when we departed, Jyoti had made many friends and was annoyed at having to travel again. She pouted and stood on the back seat of the car, looking out the back window, waving to the group of kids that ran after our car until they could run no longer. I watched the women momentarily stop their chores and wave goodbye to me. Just outside the village we stopped at the railway crossing and waited for the train pass. As a child I would watch boys throw bundles of sugarcane from their fields to the driver of this train and he in return would throw some coal back to the boys. This coal was then bartered at Shah di hatti for some candy. Such happy memories of a carefree time. The car took us to the GT Road and then off to Delhi after depositing Mohinder chachaji and Kumari bhua ji in Rajpura. The green fields of my childhood flew past at faster and faster speed. Rural punjab soon gave way to cities. This place, that is such an integral part of me, would never be home to Jyoti.

Bebbe

This is the story of Papaji's Bebbe (grandmother), written by Papaji, my father, and cherished and collected for posterity by me, Amrita Bedi Mahapatra. When complete, it will be published as a book. To read it click on comments.

The Funeral

Babaji's funeral was a big event in our lives and the lives of the villagers. He was the surpunch (elected leader) of our village and well revered elder. People came from far and near to pay homage to him. All the families were still reeling from having been uprooted and scattered at the time of the partition. Weddings and funerals were important times for everyone to come together and re-connect. Our whole family was home except for Chaman chachaji, papaji's immediate younger brother, who was posted in New Delhi. He was married and had a four months old son. He lived with his wife, Gulshan chachiji, and father-in-law in the in-law's home. Gulshan chachiji was the youngest of four sisters; no brother. Chachaji was their ghar-jawai, literally resident son-in-law (sometimes used derogatorily). They came a day later.

For the funeral our main room had been emptied of cots and trunks and some durries had been spread on the floor. Women came and sat in a group in the middle of the room. There were cots with durries in the verha for men to sit on. This was however a loose arrangement and the two groups mingled easily. The women sat in a tight circle, wearing white clothes of mourning, heads covered, crying audibly inside their chunnis. Men were dressed in white turbans, dhotis and shirts. They sat or stood outside in smaller groups, heads close together, talking softly. Bhabiji was quietly supervising tea and lassi being served to all. She did not make a big production of crying and wailing and earned biji's respect. The other family members were also not the chest beating, hair pulling and wailing loudly type. Our family (according to the villagers) had been unduly influenced by the city culture. On top of that many members were educated and had lost the aplomb needed to mourn the proper way by wailing loudly while raising arms in supplication, rhythmically thumping chest in grief, pulling hair in self immolation and rocking body back and forth. Our family was generally sobbing quietly. The villagers were greatly offended on babaji's behalf. He deserved better.

The village syapawallis (professional criers) were alerted. These women are usually invited by the families to keep the exhausting tempo of vigorous grieving going on. Papaji and his brothers with their modern ways viewed these types of customs as barbaric and did not arrange for them. "And the wives are city bred who know not any better" was whispered a few times in the crowd. The village women on arrival gathered outside our verha gate, regrouped their energies and walked in en masse, heads covered, arms raised in entreaty to the Mover and Shaker of the universe, wailing and moaning loudly. All of us cousins would run out to watch them in awe. The women that were already in the house would meet the newcomers halfway in wailing and for a while the room would resound with animated grief before slowly petering out with fatigue. The village women then would look sheepish and offended. The syapawallis were badly needed to fill this gap. Biji was sitting on the floor with the women but was quiet. Having raised the whole subdivision with her crying in Nagpur, now when her robust wailing could have saved family pride she sat there uncharacteristically subdued. "City women are no good" was whispered again.

Chaman chachaji had just arrived that morning with his family. His wife, Gulshan chachiji, was in the main room with the women sitting up on the lone chair that had been mistakenly left in the room. She was very fair and dressed too stylishly for the village, leave alone a funeral. For the funeral you not only wear white clothes but torn white clothes. Here was chachiji sitting on the chair wearing pretty looking pastels. She was newly married and had no white clothes and definitely no torn clothes. She came from a well to do home and they did not save old clothes. Chotte bhabiji had quicly given her a white chunni as soon as they arrived in the morning. Now chachiji sat above all the women, on a chair, looking like a vision from another world. She was wearing her city make-up. This was so out of the ordinary that the refrain "city women know nothing" was rendered impotent and a new one was born, "Hai oh merea rubba! Just look at her!!

For a while Chaman chachaji enjoyed the villager's dumbfounded response. Then he decided to play some mischief. His physique was still quite slim and boyish. He borrowed some clothes from biji, against her better judgement, and dressed up as a woman. He tied his long hair in a bun and hid his beard inside a thick chunni, showing only the eyes and nose, just like the other women. Then he made a dramatic entrance, crying and wailing with a gusto. There was a predictable rise in the crescendo of grief from the women in the room. Chachaji plopped in their midst and they all wailed in chorus. When they took a breather all started wondering about the identity of the new, God bless her! very proper relative. Gulshan chachiji, who had instantly recognised Chaman chachaji, sat stone faced on her throne. Biji and Shanti chachiji were prostate on the floor with what appeared to be fitting bereavement. Vadhe bhuaji muttered 'satnam' under her breath. They were all too overcome to answer anything. Chotte bhabiji came over and hugged the newcomer investigatively and then hurriedly ran out coughing and choking with shrieks, invoking another fit of wailing from biji and Shanti chachiji.

Bhabiji was quietly angry at Gulshan chachiji for never having visited the village after the marriage, as should have been done. Babaji died without having seen his new grandson. Now Gulshan chachiji sat on the chair, decoratively unrepentant, and Chaman chachaji was having fun in women's clothes. When the women enquired about the new comer bhabiji came back with a fast one. She told them it was Gulshan chachiji's sister. Gulshan chachiji was so stunned she did not move a muscle. All the women rallied around the new woman and the room reverberated with their wailing. Villagers were finally satisfied with the syapa ritual. They did wonder though if chachaji had married the wrong sister.

On the fourteenth day the Akhand Path (uninterrupted reading of the holy book) started. This continued for ----hrs. On the sixteenth day the reading was concluded with singing of hymns and the service was ended with Aarti. Our whole house and the space around it was filled with relatives and acquaintances. Everyone was served langar (eating of food as a community). It looked quite festive to me. I asked chotte babaji what was going on. He picked me up and told me that everyone was celebrating my special day. It was May 31st. My seventh birthday. I was pleased that he had remembered.

For one year we mourned babaji by abstaining from celebrating any festival. Then new year started and life resumed as before. Every year we observe shradha (day dedicated to honor the departed) and remember him. Biji always makes prasad on his anniversary and says a prayer. Papaji reminicses his younger days spent with babaji. In my home I too make prasad and light a candle in front of babaji's picture. My kids have never met babaji but they know him. He is still with us in our hearts. He has lived a long life.

Final Days

Babaji was the first person in my young life that died. I do not remember it as a heartrending tragedy though. I was more curious than sad. During our last visit he was confined to a hastily built room at the far end of our verha. Bhabiji was the only person I saw going in and out of that room to take care of him. I was strictly forbidden to go near the room. I imagined tuberculosis as an invisible shrieking banshee that would jump out of his body and possess mine if I went near him. I saw Babaji sitting on the cot in his room, with his head hanging down in deep thought, sitting without moving for long periods. He never looked my way and I lost interest. Other people from our village and nearby villages would come visit him over the strong objections of chachajis. They would come, sit outside the room and talk to him through the window. They would come to inform him about their son's marriage or pick an auspicious date for their daughter's wedding. They would bring their newborns to be blessed by him. They often brought their family or communal disputes to him. They trusted his wisdom and had faith in his justice. Babaji was always revered by the villagers but now his imminent death and stoic acceptance of it made him a saint in their eyes. They brushed away the family's gloom and doom precautions and kept their own vigil for him. In spite of all this he was alone in isolation. As I write this my adult heart aches for him. But as a child I took it in stride.

Tuberculosis in those days was an incurable and a dreaded diagnosis. Babaji first got this infection a decade earlier, in a wound on his leg that had been festering for months. The family at that time was still in Santpura. He was making some repairs on the roof of his house when he slipped and fell down. The village masseuse set the broken bone in his leg but could not heal the open wound. Many types of poultices were tried but to no avail. By the time he went to the doctor in the city tuberculosis had taken hold over there. His leg was immediately amputated to save his life. Soon India became independent and our family found itself a refugee in a new land. Claiming the reallottment of his lands, the waiting in the crowded courts for this and settling his young family in Bakshiwala forced him to adjust to one leg life with no time to ponder over it. Walking on the uneven surface of rural geography must have been very hard. But he managed. Having grown sons helped. More than a decade passed before he was diagnosed with tuberculosis again. He had been complaining of chronic cough. When taken to the doctor the diagnosis became clear from his chest X-ray. His lungs were like a sieve. He was pronounced highly infectious and given a couple of months to live. The family panicked and put him in extreme isolation.

Papaji was posted in Nagpur at the time, a city hundreds of miles away. We quickly packed and came home for a hasty visit. The house in the village was very still and very quiet. On the last day babaji came out and sat on a cot outside the kitchen. Everyone lined up to do paripana. Biji sobbed as she touched his feet. I was holding her hand. In sikh culture daughters do not have to do paripana. But I saw babaji's big toe with a ridged, uneven brown nail and instinctively brushed it with my finger. I felt his hand gently bless me. That was the last I saw of him. The next thing I remember is that we were back in Nagpur and received a telegram from the village. Biji started crying loudly. Kailash bhuaji, who had come with us, collapsed on a chair and sobbed noiselessly. Papaji sat quietly on a chair in the front room. Our neighbors came and stayed the whole day. Babaji had died. It was May 15th, 1958 that day.

We immediately set out for the village. By the time we reached Babaji had been cremated. His room had been burned down along with everything that he had touched in it. We were either inoculated from exposure or did a good job with isolation because none of us ever contracted tuberculosis. Our village and all the other surrounding villages mourned babaji's death. The scattered family from Santpura came to visit. Babaji's only sister came with her family. Babaji was fifty-eight years old at the time and people said he had lived a good, long life. He was given an elder's funeral.

Babaji

Babaji is a respectful term in India for a wise old man. We called our grandfather babaji. Actually everyone called him babaji. He was definitely a wise old man. I was only seven years old when he reached 'the completion of his life' but I remember him clearly. He had a full beard that was completely white. He had big smiling eyes and lots of wrinkles on his face. He was different from anyone else I knew because he had only one leg; the left one. He walked with a stick that my uncle, Mohinder chachaji, had fashioned out of a pippul tree branch. The stick had a Y-shape at the top. Bhabiji, my grandmother, had wrapped a soft rag around this end. Babaji used to hold this end under his right arm and use it like a crutch while walking. I always had to walk on the other side when we went out to Shah di hatti to buy toffee or snack for me. My brother Kuku could not come because he was too little and reluctant to leave biji's side. I loved going out with babaji. Where ever we went people showered special attention on us. He was often stopped by the villagers for advice and blessings. People invited him in with offers of tea or lassi and sweets. Babaji always let me decide if we should go in or not. I knew the homes that gave the best sweets and snacks. At the hatti all the men gathered around babaji and discussed grown up stuff while I sat and finished my banana and toffee. Babaji attentively nodded through all the conversation. When he spoke everyone listened. Often he made the men laugh.

Once when I was about five, I asked babaji if he missed his other leg. He looked at me and exclaimed,

"Duahi rub dee (Grace be to God)! Why would I miss it?"

He explained that loosing one leg was the best thing that could have happened to him. He could now sleep on a narrow bed and not feel cramped, he needed less cloth for stitching his clothes and needed to get only one shoe made. When he was tired there was only one leg that could hurt. He also claimed that he could finish his bath faster and with less water. Kuku sitting close by was so impressed that he decided he wanted to get one of his legs cut too. Babaji gave him a tight kiss and said he loved him the way he was. Besides if everyone started cutting their legs and using sticks to walk, we would have no pippul trees left. I wisely agreed with him; he had a point there. I did not like Kuku stealing babaji's attention.

Babajis wooden stick was much better than any leg. He could use it for many more things than just walking. He used it to reach objects too far to reach by hand. He poked me with it if I did not listen to him. He poked every one with it if they did not listen to him. Bhabiji always made it a point to sit beyond the reach of the stick. In fact sometimes when she wanted to talk to him about something that she knew he would not like, she would hide the stick first. One time she wanted to discuss the matter of the two of them visiting New Delhi, the capital city, to visit my eldest uncle. Babaji did not want to go; Bhabiji wanted to go. She tried to reason with him but he did not want to talk about it. Bhabiji knew she should take the stick away before she continues the discussion but babaji anticipated this and held on to the stick, refusing to let go. He got up and told bhabiji that he was going to spend the day at the hatti, away from her nagging. Bhabiji quickly shut him in the kitchen, where they were sitting, bolted the door from outside and continued the discussion from the verha through the open window. She very much wanted to go to the city to my uncle's home.

Babaji tried to poke her with the stick through the window but bhabiji stayed just out of reach. We watched them argue like this a good part of the day. Bhabiji kept telling him how much she wanted to go, while continuing her chores in the verha. Luckily the kitchen had been moved out into the verha for summer to take advantage of the breeze. Babaji kept repeating that he needed to stay in the village where his fields were. Bhabi ji moved all her household chores out of his reach. She made us hand him his meals through the window. Babaji tried to throw the lassi that she gave him at her but she was quicker and ducked nimbly. Many of the villagers heard the commotion and came over to watch the soap opera. Babaji asked them to open his door but they refused saying they did not want to get involved in someone else's affair, as wisely advised by his own self many times. They were all invited into the verha and offered cots and jute mats to sit on, by bhabiji, as the hospitality code demanded. They were served tea when the family had tea. They were served lassi when the family had lassi. Women helped bhabiji clean the dishes. Men gathered around discussing the pros and cons of city life. The priest came over for the annual collection for the gurudwara (the sikh place of worship). He had been having hard time cornering a few people so when he saw some of them collected in one place he knew this was his God given opportinity. Many vendors came over too to sell fruits, vegetables, utensils, potions, bangles etc. They were glad to not have to go from house to house. One neighbor even traded his cow, with expert advice from babaji. By evening bhabiji had won. Babaji told everyone that he was plain wore out. But later that night he told me that he was afraid everyone would have to be fed dinner. He decided it was cheaper to go to the city.

One day he asked me to accompany him for a walk. He said that the foot of his cut leg was bothering him. This was a big problem for babaji. That cut foot often hurt or itched and babaji could not do anything about it. Walking sometimes helped the body remember that the foot was not there. So we went for a long walk. While walking I started searching for ways to help babaji. I remebered the bag of ashes that bhabiji kept safely tucked away in the back of the dark storage room. She had secretly told me one day that those were the ashes of babaji's leg. I wondered if we could scratch the ashes to help babaji's itching leg. He gave a slow smile and ruffled my hair. After a long while, when we were headed back, I saw that he was still smiling. When I asked him what was he smiling about he said it was a long story and he would tell it to me some other time. But he never got that chance. For soon afterward the summer ended and I went back to the city with biji and papaji. Next time when we came back to the village babaji had been diagnosed with lung tuberculosis.

The Home

Our home in Bakshiwala was part brick and part thatch. The portions from the original haveli were brick, the additions were thatch. Much later, as the money became available, these were slowly converted to brick structures. The front room from the haveli remained the main central structure. A kitchen was added to its side. Initially, water for cooking came from a common well. Bathing and washing of clothes was done at the neher. Later a small shed with mechanical pump for water was construted close by. This shed was used to take showers and provided water for everything else in the house. All these structures and a large verha (outdoor space) were bracketed within a four foot wall. The thatch walls and the dirt floor had to be regularly maintened by resufacing with a mixture of cowdung and clay from the village pond.

The main room, the kitchen and the shed all opened into the verha. When it rained we would become room bound in whichever room we were in unless we chose to get wet. In summer we all slept out in the verha on cots that were put away during the day. In winter we slept in the main room. The cots were the main furniture we owned. They were used as sofas, beds and tables too. We also had tin trunks that held our clothes and everything else worth putting away. These were piled 3 to 4 high in the main room, lining one of its wall. These were our prized possessions. The wall across from the trunk wall was lined with framed pictures of family members and calendars from many years. Calendars were cherished for their pictures and were kept hanging long after the year they represented was over. The far end of the room was partitioned off to create a storage space for odd extras and some valuables. This room was dark and mysterious. It never saw the light of the day and smelled of dust and jute bags. Chachajis used to threaten me with time in it if I did not behave.

The kitchen was a warm, thatch room with pretty, moghul architectured small nooks to hold the kerosine lamps and candles. The pots and pans were kept on the shelves. One corner was used as pantry. The cooking was done on a kerosine stove or coal burning angithee that sat on the floor. The person cooking sat on a four inch high stool called chownki. Others sat around the cooking on similar chownkis or moorhas, slightly higher stools of wood with woven jute seats. Sometimes we brought in a cot and sat on it too. The food was served as soon as it was cooked. The rotis (kind of pita bread) were served into the plate right from the tava. We took turns eating, sitting with our bowl of curry in front, as the rotis were served to us. The eating utensils were made of pittal (an alloy of brass and----) with silver plating on the inside to prevent corrosion. This plating had to be redone every few months. The water for cooking and washing hands was kept in large pittal buckets with a long ladle. The water for drinking was kept in an earthern pot. The porous material allowed slow evaporation of moisture leaving the water cold. The more porous the pot the cooler the water. Of course the porous pots were very fragile and broke easily. A pot with the right balance of porosity and durability was in great demand and extremely prized. We also owned a small side table and two straight wooden chairs that were used on special occasions. When papaji and his brothers were drinking they would take the table out and put the liquor bottle and the clear glass glasses on it. The guests or the elders were offered the chairs which were hard and actually quite uncomfortable. Everyone would always try to be polite and offer it to the next person. The cot was the place to be on. It had a wooden frame with jute woven surface for sitting. The jute had a give in it and made the surface gently comfortable. Cots could seat four to six people and were great for group visits. We kids loved to wiggle and scoot between the adults on it. When no one was looking Kuku and I loved to jump on them trampoline style. We often got caught and were spanked for it. I being the elder one was labeled ring leader and received the brunt of it.

My favourite part of the house was the door leading to the main room. This used to be the main entrance to the haveli and was correspondingly impressive. When Babaji took possession of the front room of the haveli, we inherited the door with it. This door was twelve feet tall and built solid to defend against any attack. It would have looked right at home in any castle. We had to go up one step to reach its landing. It had two wide panels of thick wood, each made up of two vertical columns of six squares each. These squares had copper plating and a brass, decorative but fierce looking, three inch spike in the middle. To go in the room we had to step over a four inch ledge on the floor (meant to keep rain water and mice out but did neither) and an ugly drain. There was a steel bolt at five feet height that we called kunda. This had a huge, crusty looking antique lock. The lock had a heavy five inch long key strung on a piece of rope. This was hung by the side of the door on a nail in the outside wall. When we went out to the fields we locked this door and hung the key on the nail. The lock was mainly to keep the dogs and cats out. If we all went out to the town, which was very rare, we left the key with one of the neighbors. The kitchen had its own practical looking door which had to be locked seperately.

The whole family hated my favourite door. My grandmother, Bhabiji, hated it with a vengence. It was heavy and unwieldy and hard on her old bones. It had to be shut and opened upteenth times in a day and chronically creaked inspite of lubrication. Bhabiji cursed it every time she used it. She could not lean against it while sitting on the step, her favourite place, because of the spikes. And it opened on the inside taking up too much space that was needed desperately by the large family. The two panels did not meet snugly against each other in the middle, leaving a finger's width of crack to admit howling loo (oven hot air) in summer and bone chilling cold in winter. The metal in it became too hot in summer and burned the hand. In winter it predictably became ice cold. In a place like Punjab, where the seasons are extreme, it really was an unpractical door. But it never occurred to anyone ever to replace it. I secretly planned to take it with me and use it for my own home when I grew up.

From Santpura to Bakshiwala

In 1947 when the British left India they carved out a portion of it to create Pakistan; the muslims in India wanted a country of their own. The dividing line went through my family's home state Punjab; Punj(five)+ab(water; river). One part of Punjab (with four rivers and well settled villages and cities) went to Pakistan. The other part with one river and sparsly settled land stayed with India. Our ancestral village Santpura came to be on the Pakistani side. Our ancestars had lived there for 150 yrs. Everyone in the village was related, all having descended from one original family. After the division there was ethnic cleansing on both sides. The sikhs and hindus were driven out of the Pakistan side and the muslims were driven out of the Indian side. My family being sikhs were in the wrong corridor. They had to leave everything behind and move to the Indian side to save their lives. All went in different directions and got scattered like leaves in a wind (my grandmother's words). I grew up listening to my family's recreation of the home, fields and the people of Santpura that they left behind. The partition has remained a watershed event in their lives. Some of them never got over the move. Others live with the scars of that time, healed but there all the same.

Our family was awarded land in the village of Bakshiwala in leiu of the land we lost in Santpura. But it was only 1/3rd. of the original land. My grandfather came to the village first and was satisfied, under the circumstances, with what he saw. Bakshiwala was a village owned by the two widows of ------------. They had no children. The widows lived in a haveli (large brick house) surrounded by the fields they owned. The fields were tilled and maintained by group of families who lived in one corner of the village. These families were low-caste chamars, people who prepare leather from dead animals. There was a beautiful, old, one hall mosque in the village. The widows were muslim. During the partition the widows suddenly disappeared one day. They were there at night but gone in the morning. I heard different versions as to what happened to them but no one really knew exactly. When my grandfather arrived at the village the haveli was abandoned and the Indian government was alloting their land to displaced people.

My grandfather settled in the front room of the haveli with good amount of space in front and a long porch behind it. Other people came and settled in other parts of the haveli. My grandfather helped organise this settling and was immediately accepted as an elder. This village was made up of displaced sikhs from all over. They were all strangers to each other, now bound by allottment. The Bedis from our original village were allotted land in other villages. Only one distant relative, chacha Sant Singh came to Bakshiwala. I was born four years after this move.

Maha Prasad

Family get togethers were always reasons to celebrate. In honor of our visit Kuldeep chachaji decided we would have chicken for supper. Cooked chicken was also called 'Mahaprasad' (blessed food of the gods) and the way it tasted you had to agree. Bhabiji was a strict vegetarian and stayed away from us all on these occassions. Early morning chachaji tickled my foot and woke me up saying,

"Hey! want to come help me pick a rooster".

I threw aside the bed sheets and ran to put on the shoes. Other kids in the village went bare feet but Biji would not let us go out without socks and shoes. Chachaji opened the shed where the roosters and hens spent the night to let them out for the day. I sat on the ground peeking through the low door trying to decide which rooster was the fattest. After the night's congested quarters the birds were eager to get out and start looking for grain. Many of them flew straight from the perch to the outside right above my head and through chachaji's flailing hands. Before we knew, all of them were out and we had no rooster in hand. Chachaji sat down on his heels laughing.

"Death be on you! What were you doing taking so long to pick the rooster".

Without wasting time we quickly ran after the flock that by now had scattered in ten different directions. I quickly zeroed in on a tall, arrogant looking bird that was staring back at me. Chachaji also liked the this one. So we started stalking him. He was one smart cookie though. He gave a cackle of screams and flew into the neighbor's angan (walled yard) to become one with the flock inside. We entered this house right after him and seperated him out visually. After leading us through a chase around the cows and the cots he slipped out into the gali. We ran after him and spotted him on another neighbor's wall. By this time the children of the village had been alerted and they surrounded us as spectators. The rooster had a keen, alert air about him and knew he was the target. We followed him in and out of many homes and galis but to no awail. The children soon joined in the chase with many a cunning schemes but that rooster flew out every time he was cornered. The women laughed behind their chunnis and men pretended to be busy with their tasks but there was no doubt as to who they were rooting for. Chachaji grabbed one bed sheet and tried to trap the rooster under it. But the rooster had more at stake than we did, I guess, and escaped us every time. Finally a fatal mistake was made by the harried bird. He ran into its shed. Chachaji instantly closed the door and within a half hour presented it defeathered and chopped to chachiji and Biji for cooking. Then he lay on the cot and took a nap. Mohinder chachaji mused that the rooster had lost half its weight in the catching.

Chachiji chopped some onions and garlic and sauted them in butter till they were golden brown. Then she added tomatoes and cooked some more. She then added salt, ginger, turmeric and garam masala (a mix of many spices) and cooked till the butter seperated. Then she added the chicken pieces. She let all this cook on medium heat, stirring intermittently to prevent burn. The smell wafting from the chicken was so appetising that all of us sat on the floor, surrrounding the pot, chatting and waiting for the chicken to get ready. Mohinder chachaji and Papaji brought a bottle of liquor and made great ritual of drinking it from clear glasses. All of us took small samples of chicken pieces with our fingers, right out of the pot, to check the salt and doneness of the chicken. Even Biji joined in, licking her fingers clean afterwards, just like us. The chicken was all finished before it was done. Then Kuldip chachaji woke up and walked into the kitchen.

Horrified as they were, Biji and chachiji could not help it so they dug their heads into their knees and suppressed their mirth. Papaji and chachaji however lost control and rolled on the floor with laughter. Kuldip chachaji did not find this amusing even one bit. Kuku and I stared from one member to the other and alternated between laughter and horror and knew not what to do. It took two bottles of wine to placate Kuldeep chachaji. Then the three of them spent the rest of the night laughing while Biji and chachiji took Kuku and me to bed.

After dusting our ruffled clothes we would pick up our luggage and start the mile long journey to the village. Someone from the village would appear to help us carry our things. Sometimes this person would bring a bicycle. Kuku, my younger brother, liked to ride on the back of the bicycle precariously sitting atop the loaded luggage. I hung back with the family to catch up on all the conversation. We would greet or be greeted by the people of village Ugani which was right on the GT road near the bus stop. We would politely decline the offers of tea or lassi and hurriedly start the walk home. Biji would cover her head with her chunni (thin scarf) as she was in the land of her in-laws now. I did not have to do that because I was the daughter of the village. Papaji was not very particular about these customs but Biji was.

The walk home was full of wonder for me. Our city clothes and luggage of tin trunks instead of cloth bundles drew a lot of attention. Everyone passing by greeted us and kept asking questions until we moved out of their hearing. Papaji and chachajis answered the questions good naturedely. Papaji would always pretend he remembered all the people but after they had passed he would ask chachajis who they were. Papaji was bad at remembering names and faces. The neher along the pathway was sometimes full upto the rim with water running slowly and making waves and spirals on the way; Other times it would be barely a trickle with big stagnant puddles where buffaloes bathed. I would pick up a branch somewhere and draw lines in the mud sending clouds of dust in the air. Papaji and Biji would scold me to stop it and chachajis would laugh and encourage me to go on doing it. I would finally move to the back of the group to stop the commotion.

Information of our arrival would reach our village long before us. The first welcome party would be made up of the village stray dogs. They belonged to no one in particular and every one in general. They would give us a few barks of recognition and then join us on our way home with their tails wagging. By the time we were within sight of the village there would be a group of barefoot scraggly looking kids waiting inside their mother’s Laxman rekha, to escort us home. On the way we would momentarily stop and meet the families whose homes lined the gali (narrow lane) that led to our home. At the door of our home would be Bhabiji, my grandmother, Shanti chachiji, older chachaji’s wife and whoever else that had beat us in arriving at the village for holidays. There would be many hugs and kisses for us kids. Every one would rough up our hair and pinch our cheeks. Biji would do paripana to Bhabiji and chachiji would do paripana to biji and papaji. Bhabiji would bless biji with long life for her husband and the good fortune of many sons. We would be served tea and cookies. Kuldip Chachaji would shoo the kids and dogs away with a few choice words that till today I have hard time repeating. The children would giggle and scatter. The dogs were more tenacious. They would move out of reach and stand staring till they were served a little bread. Biji, and Chachiji would start the dinner and the men and Bhabiji would sit on the cots in the courtyard and socialize. As it got dark we would light the kerosene lamps. Chachajis would get up to tend to the cows and buffaloes. Then we would all sit and eat together. The food and the back and forth conversation in the dim warm light of the lamps has remained the picture of ideal family in my memory, something I try to recreate with my own family in Lincoln Nebraska.

Bakshiwala

Our joint family home has always been in the village of Bakshiwala. This is a small village in the northwestern state of Punjab in India and is four miles west of the city of Rajpura. As far back as I can remember we have called it home. This village sits in the middle of many other similar hamlets, all in the business of farming. Agriculture, hence, has been the back bone of our family whether we settled down in the cities or stayed in the village. Papa Ji, my father, worked for the Finance Ministry in the Indian government. He would get transferred to a new city every three or four years but often managed to circumvent these orders so we moved less often than we normally would have. Home, however, remained in the village where we went every chance we got. It was the only destination of all our holidays and if we visited other cities it was because they happened to be on the way to the village.

Bakshiwala was a mile from the main road. A small dirt pathway connected the village to this road. The dirt pathway rode on the bank of a neher (a small canal) that came to our fields from the Bhakra Dam, and took us to the main road known as the GTroad (Grand Trunk Road). Our village was on one side of this pathway, and our fields were on the other side, with the neher in between. To catch the bus to the city we had to go to the GT road. Most people walked, carrying any load they had on their heads. Usually the items to be carried were wrapped and tied in a piece of cloth. Men occasionally used a bike to ease the load. Bikes were expensive and only a few villagers had them. It was common to borrow the bikes when needed. Children loved to get a ride on the bike.

I lived for the days we spent at our home in the village. My mother, Biji, absolutely did not. She was a city girl through and through and never learnt to like the village life. Of course being the daughter-in-law had a lot to do with it. She liked being at her parents home in Chandigarh, a clean, orderly city just twenty five miles from our village. There she could relax and temporarely put down the day to day burdens of a housewife. To me though Chandigarh seemed like a clean, luxurious resort that lacked the interest of a buzzing, vibrant, rooted community.

Every summer we would arrive at Rajpura station on a bus or train and be pulled out through the windows into the arms of our chacha jis (uncles; dad's younger brothers) who could not wait for us kids to exit through the doors. After ruffling our hair they would admire our clothes and comment on our rapid growth in height and then get busy helping Biji and Papa ji with the luggage. The buses and trains stopped for a short while only and our arrival was always a hectic affair. After chachajis hugged and did pranaams to papaji and biji (touching feet as a form of respect to elders) we would come out of the small station and out into the familiar air of Punjab. Rajpura was a small agricultural town and most people knew our family. We always stopped by the lassi wala's cart and had big glasses full of creamy, foaming lassi (sweet yogurt drink). Then we would visit the Bedi (our namesake) cloth shop on the GT road where we would be offered tea. While the adults enjoyed the tea and visited with the owner we kids would wander (and be instantly pulled back) on the road. Rajpura was full of dust and flies but no one other than Biji noticed it. It had a distinct earthy smell with components of cow dung, fried pakoras and the sugar factory near by. From there we would take a local bus and be dropped at the pathway to our village. Another frenzy of unloading the luggage and counting us kids would commence, then bus would depart with loud crumbling sounds from its old frame and we deposit us on our homeground.

The Beginning

I have been writing my family's story in my mind for almost 30 years but never jotted it down on paper. The blog seems like a good way to jump in headlong without too much preamble. I always want the first paragraph to be spectacular, all fireworks and lightening, something that will hook and then reel the reader in. This is where I get stuck. So this time no formal introductory paragraph. I am going just going to start from the middle. If I ever come up with a brilliant beginning I will insert it here. Until then let me just get on with the story.

My family members on my father's side are great story tellers. I have grown up with elaborate re-enactments of Indian epics, complete with actions and voice modulations, from my father and all his brothers and sisters. Our home life was quite an epic itself. When I was little, it was a joint family structure, with grandparents, uncles, aunts, their families and children all joined together into one big family. Not every one lived under one roof at any given time though. Families moved in and out and were magnetically held together under a loose family management. The loose family management was what made it an epic.

Sorry to break the thread, but I just thought of a good starting paragraph.

"This is my family's story as I have heard and lived it. . . . ".

Well maybe not! I have been sitting here at this place with a dilemma I do not know how to solve. The problem is, while I can write with great impunity that part of the story that happened in front of my eyes, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of what I have heard from others. I myself, am able to see events happening in front of me with great clarity and relay them without distortion, but I cannot say the same about the other family members. You see, the stories I have heard changed, over time, not only from person to person but also from the same person. Now my telling also changes over time but that is because the events sometimes truly evolve retrospectively. Anyway, this story then is an amalgam of the collective memory of our whole family, with all its imperfections and stretching of the truths to make the history more interesting. Some places have been reconstructed (ok fabricated) to fill the gaps left by memory lapses and other places events have been condensed to create a composite for the sake of brevity. Other than that it is absolutely the way it happened.

Now how does one put this in a coherent paragraph that will start this telling and hook and reel the reader in? Maybe I will make another attempt at the 'beginning' some other time.

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