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.