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.