Her soft, smiling face with those endearing wrinkles and her fragile frame silhouetted against the front door beckon me, as I return home from work. As I enter, I am taken back to my childhood. The fragrance of hot ginger tea is inviting. As I drink the tea with some homemade snacks and narrate the day’s happenings, she is all ears.
At the ripe age of 84, my mother’s zest for life, her concern for the have-nots, for the environment, for the birds and animals is an eye-opener for me. She is in tune with nature. Through several day-to-day incidents I am beginning to recomprehend this woman.
As I wash the vessels in the morning leaving the tap on she admonishes me not to waste water. My milkman has been a regular fixture for years. A silent figure who came every evening just as night was setting and the shadows lengthening. But now I can see him in animated conversation with my mother, narrating his tales of woe: his wife is a road accident victim, battling cancer. While Amma offered him some monetary help to tide over this crisis, much more valuable was the empathy they shared.
Devi chechi is tall, slim, around 65 years old with a squint and a grim expression. She comes home every morning at 6.30 to help us with the household chores. I often grumbled about the quality of her work and her hot-tempered nature. But Amma looked at the positive aspects. She appreciated her enterprising nature and noted how her day begins so early. I watched the two of them sharing experiences of a bygone era. After some time chechi’s dour expression was replaced by the curve of a smile.
I brought home books for her from the college library, books I’ve wanted to read, yet never found the time to. I watched with happiness laced with envy as Anita Desai, Sudha Murthy, Anita Nair, Malala, Kiran Desai found their way into every nook and corner of our house. She tried to fathom concepts new to her. Yet even as she relentlessly tried to widen her horizons, simple arithmetic and money matters were Greek and Latin. At times she would not be logical, carried away by emotion. Yet I loved her all the more.
My kitchen overlooks a vast expanse of lush green paddy fields stretching right up to the horizon. Every morning Amma goes out and calls out to the crows. They come flying from afar, wait patiently as she gives them food in two separate places, to ensure the weaker birds too get a share. The crows are followed by squirrels and cats. A fleet of white Herons come flying across the green carpet symmetric dive, only to return disappointed as there is no raw fish.
The small garden in my house, with overgrown weeds, dry leaves and wilted flowers was an eyesore. But now anthuriams, balsams, bigonias are jostling for space with ferns and hibiscus. It is not a orderly arrangement of lines of potted plants, but a delightful mix of rich green foliage interspersed with a spray of flowers. The fragrance of the panineer rose and tulasi just beside the Kanthari green chillis gives a mix and match of hues even as conventional rules of gardening are thrown to the winds. I like to believe that it is her soothing touch and the organic manure she makes herself from kitchen waste that has transformed my desolate garden; lessons for me in recycling and sustainable development.
Today the crows call out for her; the garden is a blaze of colours, yet it is lonely. As I wake up in the morning, my ears yearn to catch the strains of her vedic chants, but there is a deafening silence. Amma has gone to Mumbai, to my sister’s place. Some people make the world more special just by being in it. She has taught me that it is the small things in life that transform a house into a home.
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