Bhabi Ji Comes To Visit

Bhabi Ji, my grandmother, came to visit us about twice a year. She made her home with Baba Ji, my uncle and her eldest son, and visited the other four by turn during the year. Her visits to our home were a mixed bag. Papaji, my father, loved to have her come over in the beginning; but later tired. Biji, my mother, played the passive aggressive card. She would be very polite and respectful on the outside and deeply resented her on the inside. I loved her visits and the sitcom worthy drama they created. My younger brother, Kuku and sister, Bablee, under the influence of Biji, were not able to see the entertaining Ram-Leela aspect of it.
Bhabi Ji was a high maintenance guest. First of all she did not consider herself as guest. When she came to visit she instantly installed herself as the lady of the house returning from a long journey. She would walk in, carrying her cloth bundle that held her precious essentials, and accept Biji’s paripana; In return blessing Biji with many sons and wish a long life for Biji’s husband. Then she would scout the house for the best place to enthrone her cot. She liked it placed where she could have a modicum of privacy but also be able to see all the going ons in the house. She also liked to be able to see the front of the house to monitor all entries and exits. Out of necessity, she needed to be close to the bathroom, to make it there without having an accident. But not so close that she could smell it. This invariably turned out to be in the middle of our corridor between the kitchen and the sitting room, a place we had to pass on way to everywhere. This became the first pet peeve of Biji. She would hit her knees on the corners of the cot twenty times a day. She bore it like a martyr.
The cot was Bhabi Ji’s domain while she was there. It was made of woven jute stretched on a wooden frame. The firmness could be controlled by the amount of tension in the binding rope at one end. We had to adjust it to her specifications. This took a few days since she was not sure what her specifications were. She would agree to try a setting for one night. After adjusting the tension Biji would cover the jute with a durrie and then a soft quilt called talai. She would then cover these with a clean white bed sheet and tuck the ends in. The two pillows would be covered in odd pillowcases because the matching ones would suddenly become lost. A heavy comforter and a kambal (heavy woolen blanket) would be neatly folded at the foot of the bed no matter the season. Bhabi Ji would then get busy unpacking. She would open her cloth bundle and take out various articles and tuck them under one corner or the other. Her clothes would be nicely folded and spread under the talai. Her bag with datoon, a tree bark she used to clean her teeth with, would be tucked under the right pillow; her bag with a diary of addresses, some money, sugar crystals to calm her cough and few homeopathic medicines for her many ailments would be under the other pillow. There would be articles tucked in the folds of the kambal and the quilt too. Then she would sit down heavily on the cot and lay her walking stick, a polished branch from the kikar tree in our village, by the side of the bed. Then she would discover that the tension of the cot is not exactly right. The whole night she would toss and turn, complaining of body ache, but bare it all till next morning when the whole bed would be stripped bare and the process started all over again after correcting the tension to her specifications. This would be repeated every morning for a few days and many other times during her stay. The perfect tension always eluded her.
Bhabi Ji was easy to feed. She liked everything with a large dose of ghee (clarified butter). If she did not like what Biji had cooked, all you had to do was add sugar to the ghee, wrap it in a parantha (leavened flat bread) and mash it by hand to her specifications to make choori, and she was satisfied. Biji knew all the dishes Bhabi Ji did not like. They suddenly came into season during Bhabi Ji’s visit. Bhabi Ji opted for choori often. When Biji was ready to make the choori Bhabi Ji would send me to go check and make sure Biji was not substituting pure ghee with dalda (a vegetable product). Biji never did that. She was too honest.
Bhabi Ji, in her old age, was slowly loosing her taste buds. She liked to alternate salty, sweet, tart and spicy foods to keep her taste buds from becoming dull. She also liked them in small quantities so as not to over whelm the satiety center. We had to serve her in the smallest dishes we could find. The water had to be served in baby glasses. As she progressed in age it became a small tea cup then a small (very small) bowl. Finally when she requested it in a spoon Biji threw in the towel and walked out of the kitchen. Not to worry though. Bhabi Ji, mother-in-law to five daughter-in-laws, has weathered all sorts of storms. She refused to notice anything amiss and Biji ultimately gave in.
If anyone ever happened to inquire about Bhabi Ji’s health they got a long list of ailments starting from her ever present joint pain to that pesky night cough and everything in between. She spent the day giving voice to her suffering in the form of short expletives and long sighs. Any time we sat near her she would slowly guide our hands to her joints that needed to be massaged. Bablee, my little sister was a regular recruit for this joint therapy. She was too little to be effective with her hands so she had to get up and walk on Bhabi ji’s legs. To keep balance she held Bhabi Ji’s stick that walked along with her on the floor next to the cot. Bablee did not like this at all. She escaped from it by spending as little time at home as possible; visiting all the neighborhood homes that did not have old visiting grandmothers. When at home she diligently spent the time doing schoolwork. However, there was still time left that she could not fill with anything. That is when Bhabi Ji would catch her. Bablee performed this duty morosely. Bhabi Ji sensed this and resented it. Bablee thought five to ten minutes of kneading Bhabi Ji’s body more than enough. Bhabi Ji liked the activity to go on for hours. Bablee was too timid to say no or to end it without permission. Bhabi Ji saw her as too puny to give any notice to her bored expression. Biji usually had to rescue her by calling her for some chore in the kitchen. Bablee was Biji’s ‘damsel-in-distress’. Biji had not outgrown babying her yet. That was one big strike against Bablee in Bhabi Ji’s book. In addition she was convinced that Bablee, out of spite, did not put all the weight on Bhabi Ji’s legs during massaging. When Biji heard this she was livid. When Papaji heard it (from Biji) he could not speak for good ten minutes due to the fit of laughter that burst out of him. With tears of mirth flowing down his eyes he tried, without success, to explain to Bhabi Ji that it is not possible to hold one’s weight back while standing on something. But Bhabi Ji was no scholar of physics and remained convinced that Bablee was somehow cheating her of the benefit of the full weight. She called her ‘khhachree’ - a conniving mule.
Bhabi Ji did not like to sit idle. Her favorite activity was telling stories and chatting with us while we sat on or around her cot. She hated it when we were busy or left her to go to school or office. Biji was not much company as far as Bhabi Ji was concerned. Biji liked to do her house chores quietly and did not indulge in innocent gossip. Biji’s sense of scruples mildly annoyed and bemused Bhabi Ji. When left alone Bhabi Ji would make Biji gather all the clothes that needed repair and do the mending. Bhabi ji was really adept at sewing. Her work was neat and professional. The problem was she abhorred tedium. She would soon tire of mending and get creative. A slightly torn shirt and a dress with ripped seam would end up as three beautifully quilted shopping bags. Biji was too practical to see the artistic skill needed to bring about this transformation. She would quietly lament the loss of shirt and dress. When all the clothes had been mended or Biji had hidden every thing to safety Bhabi Ji would convince her to bring out the old sweaters. These would be unraveled, the wool yarn washed, dried and rewound into balls. Bhabi Ji then knitted it into socks, gloves and scarves for us to use. Even Biji grudgingly admired them. Ofcourse that did not prevent her from commenting that the socks were too rough and itchy. This did not dampen Bhabi Ji’s enthusiasm one bit.
The best time of the day was after dinner. Biji, having finished her days work, would sit down in a different room to rest. Papaji would sit next to Bhabi Ji on the cot and reminisce old days. These old days were peopled by Papaji’s young brother-sisters and grandfather. They all took place in Papaji’s childhood village, Santpura. Other relatives and people of the village walked in and out of the stories effortlessly. They were all fun loving, slightly quirky, often outright comedic characters that became as much my family as the real relatives in our life. Bhabi Ji was a master story teller and all her children inherited this quality. When her other sons and daughters came to visit her while she was in our home, these nightly sessions turned into class acts. Biji would make Chicken Bhuna with pure clarified butter; Papaji would bring some alcohol and serve it to his brothers (women traditionally did not drink alcohol). We would munch on crisp salad while waiting for hot Tandoori roti from nearby tandoor. The conversation would start slowly, like a tabla beat being tested. Soon a Sitar string would join in. One of the uncles would recite a few lines of a poem and other brothers would complete it. They knew a lot of Urdu poetry. If they could not remember some lines, alcohol helped them fill in the blanks. It also transported them to Santpura and their life there. They often visited some key people and places and we learnt to enjoy the visit with them. They were very fond of Chacha Ram Lal and his attention to them. They often remembered their maternal grandfather who was a great miser and their paternal grandmother, Bebbe, who lived with them and was the unwitting heroine of many of their stories. Their laughter was so infectious that we kids laughed with them whether we understood anything or not. Biji worried about the neighbors complaining about the loud laughter, but the uncles by that time were too relaxed, aided by the alcohol, and could not be contained. We kids were not much help either, putting in requests for favorite stories. Bhabi Ji looked like the queen with her entourage. Vadhe Bhuaji and Kailash Bhuaji, Papaji's sisters, would sit with the group but stay out of it. Kailash Bhuaji was the youngest and mostly listened. Vadhe Bhuaji was older than everyone except Manohar Babaji and knew about everything that the brothers were talking about. She often interjected some key memories into the conversation and spiced it up even more. She had the Bedi talent for telling stories, a sharp wit and voice and language to match our uncles. These she would sometimes employ to run a parallel critical commentary on state of affairs in the Bedi family. The brothers effectively ignored or wove it into their revelry. We kids, cousins and all, enjoyed the show like a riveting drama in which we were being allowed to be minor actors. Our home was the envy of many of our neighbors during that time. Ofcourse alcohol would soon show its ugly side and the brothers would get into arguments; these revolved around current division of ancestral property or some long lost imagined slights. Our mothers would drag us away and tuck us in beds. In the morning we would find our uncles sleeping in various stages of inebriation, sometimes under and sometimes over the bed. I would often, unsuccessfully, try to hide alcohol bottles before the get-together to prevent this sad ending.
For a few days after that the house would be quiet. But we Bedis cannot stay subdued for long. Soon the natural rhythm would reestablish and our life would continue as before. Towards the end of second month Bhabiji would have exhausted all the ways she could feel useful in. We kids would get busy with our school work and friends and start taking her presence for granted. Papaji would tire of entertaining her. Biji would finally get used to Bhabi Ji and get comfortable with her new routine. Then Bhabi Ji would call her next son and ask him to come pick her up. There she would praise our home to high heavens, goading them to match their hospitality to ours.

I have a Phulkari, a traditional embroidered shawl from Punjab, hand made by Bhabi Ji. She gave this beautiful piece to Biji and Papaji. They gave it to me. It is a rust colored cotton cloth with golden embroidery in silk thread that completely covers it. I take it out on special occassions for good luck and her blessings. She passed away in 1995 at the age of 92 years (I think) but lives in our hearts for ever.

PAPA JI, TODAY IS FATHER'S DAY AND THIS IS MY GIFT TO YOU. HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. I FEEL BLESSED THAT YOU ARE MY PAPA JI. WITH LOTS OF LOVE....AMBI.

Post Two: Miscellaneous

Dear Papaji,
This post is for you to enter any other Miscellaneous writings you do now and then. Hope you will spend a lot of time filling these up. Ambi.

Post One: Gurbani Interpretive Translation

Dear Papaji,
This entry is for you to post your translations of Darbar Sahib. I am eagerly waiting to read them. Ambi.

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.