I was hurrying to my office through the busy Deccan Gymkhana area in Pune. My phone buzzed. I was running late and ignored it. But then it rang a second time, then a third and then a fourth. I stopped on the side of the road and pulled it out of my purse, wondering who the persistent caller was.
My foul mood vanished when I saw that it was a call from Ravi’s number. It was unusual for him to even message, let alone call. Puzzled, I answered it. Even more surprisingly, it was Maa on the line.
“Mitu?”
“Yes Maa”, I replied.
“Ravi lost his father today morning. Heart attack.”
“Oh my God.”
“Ravi is in Mumbai..came yesterday. The funeral is at around 5 pm as we are waiting for Uncle’s sister to arrive.”
“Ok..I’m coming too.”
I messaged my boss accordingly. I also called up my family. My supportive hubby agreed to manage the house and our two teenagers in my absence.
I boarded the next train to Mumbai. After managing a seat in the general compartment, my mind went back in time. To those good old childhood days in a little chawl in suburban Mumbai.
Ravi and I were next door neighbours, born and brought up in that chawl. Ravi was 10 years older than me and the only child of his parents, while I had a younger brother. Those were simple days. Our fathers went to office and earned a salary, our mothers took care of the house and the kids and we children went to school and studied and played. Ravi, my brother and I grew up spending half our time in each other’s houses, which led to us being almost like one big family. The chawl system and the simplicity of those days obviously helped in such bonding, which is sadly lacking in today’s times.
Uncle, or Ravi’s Dad, was the strict patriarchal type who believed that a woman’s place was in the kitchen. He and Aunty were married when he was 25 and she, a mere 17. Uncle dominated Aunty, did not lift even a finger to help her, ordered her around and sometimes even rebuked her in front of others. Aunty, on the other hand, was a simple, cheerful woman who had been brought up to believe in the Pati Parmeshwar formula. Uncle would order her to get a glass of water, she would smilingly oblige, no matter if she were tired. He would ask her rudely to shut up in front of a total stranger and she would smilingly shut up. He would disagree with her over a point and she would immediately accept it with a smile, even if he were wrong. It was rumoured in the local gossip circles that Uncle used to sometimes plant a slap on Aunty’s cheek if she refused to obey him, but this was never confirmed.
Aunty’s solo sojourns were restricted to market trips, school parent – teacher meetings for Ravi, chatting at neighbours’ houses and the weekly trip to a nearby temple. Every place other than these would be visited only in the company of her husband. And she appeared happy to accept whatever life gave her.
As a child growing up in an age when feminism and women’s liberation were slowly taking shape in this part of the world, I used to wonder why Aunty had to be so submissive and dependent on Uncle. I thought Uncle was a bad man. I had asked Maa about this once and as you know, in those days, questions that were considered uncomfortable or unnecessary were answered with a slap or a rebuke or both, so you never ask them again. And so my views remained confined to my mind.
The relationship between Uncle and Aunty used to confuse me further because my Papa was, unlike Uncle, far ahead of the times. Born as the third son among five brothers, all the siblings grew up learning to manage the entire kitchen on their own when their mother would be forbidden to enter it on “those days of the month”. This training had spilled over into his grown up days and he would help Maa in the kitchen. He also ensured that the two of us were brought up as well balanced, independent individuals who believed in equality of men and women.
As I grew up and my thinking matured, I understood that Uncle was not a bad man after all. He had no vices. He was a responsible, disciplined and strict husband and father. His behavior, just like Aunty, was a fallout of the upbringing of his times. But I still could not understand Aunty’s patience with him. Aunty had a sewing machine on which she used to stitch clothes for herself, Uncle and Ravi. She was an excellent seamstress, but would never think of commercially exploiting her talent, though Uncle’s income was just enough to lead a spartan existence. She was an avid reader and an excellent story teller. But she limited her story telling to spinning yarns for us kids. She sang beautifully, but always in a low voice and only in the kitchen. Uncle controlled the finances, giving her just enough money to run the household and she did a wonderful job of it.
And so, life went on. We kids grew up, completed our education and got into the rat race. Then Ravi got a lucrative job in Australia. Eventually, he fell in love with an Indian co worker and got married with his parents blessings – only Aunty’s blessings, according to the gossip circles. He settled in Australia with his wife. Aunty and Uncle refused to move there despite all of Ravi’s persuasion, asserting that Uncle still had five years of service left and that they wanted their son to lead an independent life. The gossip circles maintained that the real reason was the disinclination of the father in law and daughter in law to stay in the same house.
Aunty and Uncle would still go on a month long vacation to Australia every year. I used to secretly wonder how Aunty managed to persuade Uncle to come along on those trips, or how Ravi managed his wife for that one month. Just after returning from their third such vacation, Uncle suffered his first heart attack. A quick witted Aunty alerted the neighbours and immediately got him admitted to hospital, thus ensuring his speedy recovery. She waited on him hand and foot, as she always did and nursed him back to good health. The doctor prescribed a strict diet and exercise regime for Uncle. However, despite Auntys best efforts, he junked the exercise routine after a few months and ordered her to serve him normal food. She protested mildly, but ultimately obeyed him.
The attack put an end to the annual visits of Uncle and Aunty to Australia and instead, Ravi started coming over for a few days each year.
In the meantime, I got married and shifted to Pune. Within 6 months, my brother got married to a girl of his choice. My sister in law was a homemaker and was only too glad to shift into a joint family. I was happy that my brother and sister in law were available to take care of my parents, who were also growing old.
A couple of years later, it was decided to develop the chawl. Since those were not days when redevelopment led to 40 storey buildings, the chawl was replaced by a four storey building without a lift, with four matchbox sized flats of 1 BHK on each floor. Aunty and Uncle were allotted one such flat on the first floor. They would have preferred the ground floor, but the place was reserved for shops.
My parents rented out the flat allotted to them and shifted to a bigger 2 BHK flat a few buildings away, aided by a housing loan taken by my brother. However, the two families kept visiting each other.
Since the company I worked for was headquartered in Mumbai, I used to come down 3 to 4 times every year on official duty. This gave me a chance to stay with my parents. Whenever I visited them, I would invariably drop in to meet Aunty and Uncle.
Over the years, I saw Uncle’s health deteriorate bit by bit, mainly due to age and his sedentary lifestyle. Though he had refused to heed the doctor’s advice on diet and exercise, the benefits of having grown up in a village in the good old pollution-free days helped him sustain his lifestyle without much trouble, but not for long. He was soon diagnosed with high sugar levels, around the same time that Aunty developed high BP. But while Aunty remained active and took her medicines regularly, she had a hard time keeping Uncle’s diet under control. His diabetes made him weak and irritable, or rather, more irritable than his usual self. Aunty put up with everything with a smile on her face.
Then Aunty’s knees started bothering her. “Arthritis”, pronounced the doctor. Soon, she had difficulty sitting down, getting up, walking and standing. But she persisted. She would take her morning walk, no matter what. “The body has to move if it has to remain healthy’, she would say. Uncle used to initially accompany her on the walks, but soon his love for his beauty sleep won him over. “No lift”, he would say, to cover up his laziness, “It’s tough to climb the stairs.”
And so their lives went on. As my parents were much younger, their middle age health problems were just beginning. But Papa was more like Aunty in managing his health and so, he remained active.
In the next few years, Uncle became less and less active. He too developed knee pains, which became another excuse to reduce walking. He soon got himself a walking stick. Aunty refused to use one herself. “I don’t want to lose my confidence in my ability to walk independently.” And she kept persuading Uncle to get up and walk more, but in vain.
Soon, Uncle’s forays outside the house became restricted to one single round of the building compound every evening. His local friends’ circle started dwindling as many of them were well into their 70s. This became a demotivating factor which contributed to his remaining indoors.
The more housebound he became, the more restrictions he imposed on Aunty. She could no longer leave home for more than an hour at a time. She had to be back, to take care of his needs. She could go to the local market to get groceries. She could go to the chemist downstairs for medicines. And she could visit Maa.
On one of my visits to my parents, I entered the house only to see Aunty pouring her heart out to Maa. In between sobs, she complained how Uncle wanted her to wait on him hand and foot, even if her health no longer permitted so much exertion. He refused to let her keep a maid. “Such a small house..you can manage it yourself”, he would say, “a maid will only give tension and take away a fat salary by doing substandard work.” So she had to do all the housework by herself, take care of Uncle’s increasing needs, put up with his endless criticism of her work with a smile and also cook twice a day. “He has never eaten leftovers in his life”, she said, “and even now, when every household task seems herculean for me, he would not adjust for even one day with leftovers or outside food. So, no matter what, I’ve to cook. And no shortcuts. He needs a full meal.”
“What about all the things the doctor told him not to eat?” I interrupted.
“He doesn’t listen. You know his temper. I’ve stopped trying to advise him.
My heart went out to her. But I couldn’t do anything. When I returned to Pune, I messaged Ravi.
He replied that he too had tried to persuade his Dad endless number of times to be a little more considerate. But then, he was too scared of his Dad to go beyond mild persuasion.
I couldn’t blame Ravi. He was performing a delicate balancing act, caught as he was amidst a Dad who had always been a terror for him, especially in his younger days, a meek and mild mother whom he cared for very deeply, a wife who hated the very thought of even meeting his parents and his desire to give his kids the pleasure of their grandparents’ company and vice versa. His annual visits with his kids would coincide with their school vacations. After they went on to pursue higher studies, he would visit alone. It was a challenge to secure leave from his office everytime and he always ran the risk of getting fired. And in all these years, his wife rarely accompanied him and even if she did, she would stay with her parents and manage only one small customary visit to Aunty and Uncle.
During his short visits, Ravi would try to make life as comfortable as possible for his Mom, while at the same time enduring the endless criticism and irritability of his Dad, which were directed at him as long as his visit lasted. “The only reason for my patience with him is my Mom”, he used to tell me, “she has always ensured that I respect Dad, no matter how much he scolds me. Otherwise, it can be very challenging for a grown up man to be called a fool by his father in front of his kids.”
Ravi’s daily chats with his parents from Australia were mostly restricted to his Mom. He would try to avoid a conversation with his Dad as far as possible. I once advised him to also talk to his Dad everyday. After all, he is your Dad. We have only one Dad. Talk to him a little bit. Please do. You will not regret it.”. Some days later, he messaged me to say that he had started following my advice and intended to stick to it even though his Dad wasn’t very responsive. I was happy. I did not know at the time that many, many years later, after his Dad was gone, he would thank me for it.
And so it went on. I used to often wonder what would happen if, God forbid, Aunty fell too sick to manage everything. Fortunately, that never happened.
Four months before Uncle passed away, I had visited Mumbai and had as usual, dropped in to meet Aunty and Uncle.
The site that greeted me took me by surprise. The floor was dusty. So was the furniture. And the house had been impeccably clean all these years.
When I entered the kitchen, I saw tiny cockroaches moving about. Quite a few of the vessels in use had lost their trademark shine as they had been repeatedly washed by Aunty’s weakening hands. Overall, the house was ill kept. It appeared that Aunty no longer had the strength to manage everything. I wondered why. A further foray into the house answered that question.
Uncle was lying in bed. He would sit up for his meals and get up only to go to the bathroom, said Aunty. I observed that it was a gruelling task for Aunty to bear his weight and help him walk, despite the three legged walking stick that he already used.
Aunty looked very weak, but she was still smiling. The smile had sort of become a part of her over the decades, like the mangalsutra or the bangles she always wore.
This time, I directly asked Uncle to keep a servant. He once again gave his stock reply of servants having unhygienic unorthodox habits and cheating on their work. He wanted Aunty and only Aunty to do everything, though it was obvious that he now required 24 / 7 attention, leaving no time for Aunty to manage the house. I quietly entered the kitchen, despite Aunty’s protests, cleaned up the place to some extent, helped her in cooking a meal and then left.
I snapped out of my thoughts as the train reached Mumbai. I went straight to Aunty’s house.
I weaved my way in through the crowd at the entrance. Ravi was inconsolable. I went over to him and sat with him for a few minutes. And then I went over to Aunty, who was seated in the opposite corner of the room, surrounded by the neighbourhood ladies.
On seeing me, Aunty burst into tears. I hugged her and mumbled a few incomprehensible words to try to console her, as I did not know what exactly to say in such a situation. What do you say to a woman who has lost her husband just two months after completing the golden jubilee of their wedding?
Aunty looked up at me with tear stained eyes and spoke, “He’s gone”, she sobbed, “he’s left me alone, after 50 years. What will I do? What will I do?”
And then she suddenly straightened up and asked, “How are you, Mitu? Did you come alone? It wasn’t too stressful to come all the way, was it?”
Then she called out to someone and said, “Give Mitu some water. She’s come all the way from Pune in the searing afternoon heat.”
“Mitu, go home and eat something and come back”, she continued.
And then she again remembered that Uncle was gone and sobbed.
After the funeral, I spent the night with Maa and Papa and returned to Aunty’s house the next morning to help with the second day’s rituals.
After the rituals, it was time for lunch. As one was not supposed to cook in the house, the food was delivered by a caterer. After lunch, the crowd dispersed, leaving me alone with Aunty, Ravi and his family. They were exhausted and soon his wife and kids decided to take an afternoon nap. Ravi went out to get some work done.
Aunty
decided to spend the afternoon talking to me.
She appeared calm and composed and her saree was as usual crisp, without a single pleat out of place. I couldn’t help but marvel at her inner strength. For, in all my life, I have visited quite a few families after the loss of a male member and have always seen a devastated widow helplessly wailing in one corner. But here was Aunty, a person totally dependent on Uncle for the larger part of her life, reminiscing about the good old days with her trademark smile. What was it in her, I wondered. I’d heard some neighbours tittering the previous day about her smiling demeanour, even as her husband lay lifeless in the same room. I didn’t belong to that school of thought, but I was silently curious as to how Aunty managed it. I was to get the answer soon, very soon.
Aunty continued, “Your Uncle was a shrewd man, as far as finances were concerned. He didn’t want us to depend on our son. He was proud of Ravi’s achievements, though he never showed it. Ever since his mobility started getting affected a few years ago, he knew his health would deteriorate further. He added my name to his investments. A spouse is always better as a joint holder than as a nominee, he would say. But children, no matter how devoted they may be to their parents, are always better as nominees than as joint holders, he had advised. He taught me the basics of managing finances, beyond watching the household budget.”
I was
listening with rapt attention.
“In the last one year, he required more and more attention day by day. Yes, he didn’t want a servant because of his orthodox nature. He was well aware of the hardship I was going through. He also knew that he didn’t have long to live. But he wouldn’t change, rather, he couldn’t change, because this is how he has grown up, like a king.”
And she went on, revealing more and more about Uncle’s soft side, which she alone had seen, especially in his twilight years. He had prepared her to face the world without him. He had prepared her to tackle the loneliness, after a lifetime of waiting on him.
As I observed her talking away, with a nostalgic and proud smile on her face, a faraway look in her eyes and an occasional tear, I got the answer to that niggling question in my mind about her emotional strength.
It was “Acceptance”. Aunty’s wholehearted acceptance of whatever life gave her. This was what had helped her maintain a happy marriage, bring up her son to be a responsible man and withstand the loss of her life partner. Born and brought up in an age when everyone just did what they were taught they must do, she had quietly accepted that this was her life and had made the most of it.
Epilogue:
Aunty refused to move to Australia or even visit the place, despite the insistence of her son and grandchildren. A month later, they all left, assuring to visit every year. She kept herself fully occupied, managing the house, visiting temples, sewing blouses and dresses for others, taking up singing classes for young and old aspirants and going for morning and evening walks with the neighbourhood ladies.
And yes, Ravi continued to visit her every year.
Author’s Note: This was first published on Momspresso on 09.12.2018.
Photo courtesy: Momspresso
