Diddi

It's been two months today. Two months since she left us to never come back. Dad says, she's here, watching us everyday..guarding us.. but it all fails when i really want to feel her warmth next to my feet in cold winter nights. When i actually want to cuddle up to a soft plump frame and induce sleep. When i want to talk and hear stories , because the haunting night won't let me sleep.When i want to breathe the odor that's been the sleep fragrance for every night since childhood. Truth hurts when the same pillows and quilts don't smell the same anymore.They lack that warmth. They don't smell of anything, they lie lifeless, colorless..losing  her a little everyday.

The only place where i can find her lingering still is inside the closed shutters of her cupboard, where her sarees lie folded with her last touch on them. How crisply they hang there, like she'd just pick them for a wedding, matching them with her petticoats and new shawls . To every new piece of cloth we'd get her, she'd be a very good taker. You never  had to worry about how she'd look in them, because she made sure she wore them in  front of you. "Arey jab bhagwaan ne dia hai mujhe toh main maze kyon na loon", she'd say with a charming pride in her voice.

Diddi with Chachi (Dadi)
This is exactly the face she made when she was filled with glee

Diddi on her 83rd Birthday (June 23,2013)
We all feared this could be her last.
But she celebrated it like a Queen.

Dadi was always proud of us all. I never heard her complain. Every night in Bhimtal we'd spend hours whispering tales of her yore inside the warm quilts. She was proud of  her father's home and the rich childhood she had spent under his grace. Every night there'd be a new chapter, new anecdotes...and a few things got repeated in every story. She loved addressing her father as "Mere father", like a hindi equivalent would demean his stature. Her memories still tugged on to the Railway bungalows and the homes of  Stella, Mary and Silvia...with whom she wore 'pencil heels' and 'birchis' (breeches) and ran around the corridors, playing. "Angrez bhi mere father ki bahut respsct karte thei. Hum sab ek kaloni main rehte thei", she'd proudly tell me. A strange charm would light up her face when she talked about Rails and Railways. As if they belonged to her.I'm sure even the Railway Minister today can't be sure about his hold on the Railways  as much as Dadi was.  She was her father's loved daughter and till the end she regretted not being with him, by his bedside when he died.

In the process of narrating those tales, Dadi..or Diddi as we'd always call her...would often get lost in her stories and if suddenly the dog barked from the kennel in the middle of the night, she'd snap, "Mere father ke ghar main toh kutte paalne ka dhang he kuch aur tha...." And another tale of  her 8 dogs and their keepers and chicken cauldrons and so much more would begin. Indeed, she had seen days of refined treatment and regalia. Getting married to a rather simple household in the hills may have been a setback for her at the age of 16.

Diddi & Pappa 

To how she reacted to the pros and cons of  coming into a new family, she always had a very easy answer, 'I never understood their language at first..so for the longest of time i could barely fathom whatever they said. It was easy that way, and i didnt really care to understand, coz i knew it was best to remain ignorant.' It was strange how she never had anything negative to say about anyone, she just pitied those who i guess may have done her some harm in the past. 'They were taught to be that way. You need to see the world to learn things...these guys were all toads, they stayed in the same well', she'd say slyly and chuckle!

Diddi,... I don't even know why we started calling her that...! Probably my eldest aunt imitated her uncles who addressed Dadi as Diddi...and then on she became Diddi for one and all -for her children, grand children, friends, servants..everyone! The most amusing part would be when she'd address herself as 'Diddi'... 'Diddi se kuch mat chupana tum bachche', she'd tell us smelling some mischief around. It was only after my brother began to speak that Diddi was first addressed as 'Dadi' by someone. And then in those bouts of excessive affection, Diddi turned Dadi for us elder kids too. I think that affection never saw a return, because lately we'd all begun calling her Dadi...it was more personal. Only kids could call her that..we liked that sort of possession on her and that name.

Diddi & I on Diwali 2011

Diddi always had a healing aura around her. She was positive, and you felt it the moment she entered the room. All of us kids had never wanted our parents as much as we'd wanted Dadi in times of sickness. Sometimes rains would be a difficult season for her, because there were kids everywhere. Both in Bhimtal and Nainital and all would get sick at the same time often . Poor dadi would then shuttle from one town to another addressing each of our grievances and calls for warmth, stories, medicine, khichdi...and what not!
Dadi was fat and plump , like a soft squishy fur ball...that, when she was healthier. And along with all the cushion came loud thunderous snores which the elders in the family often cribbed about. But for all the kids who slept with her, the snoring barely existed! We were all immune to her thunderous night songs. Sleeping inches away from her every night, none of us really remembers waking up to her snores ever. It was actually like a lullaby which was bound to play post 10 minutes of bidding a goodnight to dadi. Her snoring would be our step 1 to sleeping.

To me, Diddi was a grand mother i was always proud of. As a kid, i was proud of the fact that she wasn't as 'pahadi' as the other 'amas' (grannys) of the town. It just felt a little 'modern' to have a hindi speaking grand mother to the then little mind. I took pride in the fact that she was born in Porbandar, more because i hadn't seen that part of the world ever. I loved to see her read ample magazines, newspapers and understand a lot of english that i'd think she won't catch. She taught me hindi...and not just me ..she was the hindi teacher to all the kids in the house...And quite a strict one at that! Dadi had caught up with a lot of Kumaoni by the time we were born, but it was amusing to find traces of her old vocabulary embedded in that tone. Like she always called a table as 'maich' and always said 'aisa kar diye' instead of 'aisa kar do' to us. That was her typical tone and this unusual mix made her quite a vibrant character to strike a conversation with.

Diddi & Pappa with their children

She was a great mother, no doubt. Her teachings have seeped down to us today, and whatever her experiences have taught both her children and grandchildren is beyond measure. She had a peculiar way of keeping secrets. Everybody in the family had a secret bond with her over something or the other each time. Most of these secret meetings would be around some cloth/article or present she'd want any of us to get on her behalf for the house. Ever since i had left for Delhi, these secret meetings had become a routine with me. And then over the phone she'd subtely remind me, "Meri cheez laa diye" ...

Dadi was a home maker and that she instilled in her daughter in laws too. I don't understand much of the 'Grihasthi' dynamics, but all i can say is.. I never found Maa or Chachi cribbing or sulking over dadi's behaviour ever. They were infact like friends, having fun ...poking each other all the time. No wonder we kids could never relate to the saas-bahu dynamics that'd be prevalent over the daily soaps. I infact remember maa and chachi being happier spending days with dadi than going to their parental homes. We as kids were always reluctant to step out of the Bhimtal house, and then Maa would softly tell me, "just one week and then even i want to come back to dadi. It's important we go, else nani would get angry no!" A day before going to Nani's house, i'd stick to Dadi holding her tightly lest i'd be taken away to nani... and she'd spend the night convincng me to go and see nani, telling me how bad she'd have felt had i not come to see her...if she was in nani's place. I'm sure she had to undergo the same convincing with every kid. We all have always been too happy in our little world...never wanting to see the world beyond Bhimtal.

Dodger
Died 7 days after Diddi's death

Dadi's love was extravagant and as big as that love, was her hatred. And this hatred was only directed towards one thing, the plants and the pots in the veranda! As much as my Grand Pa liked gardening, she detested the very idea of it. She'd often say, 'What he does is not gardening...this is called raring a jungle.' And very obviously she was scared of the snakes and other creatures coming into the house, because it was a house with babies. The only other thing that came close to the plants were dogs. She liked them, as long as they were outside or in the kennel. she never entertained dogs in the room or on the bed. The strange part was that even though she never really hit anyone of them, all the dogs in the house were the most scared of her. A sight of her would make them dart into their kennels. Lately, that hatred had subsided... she would let the dogs enter the room now. Infact one of them was her favorite. It died a week after her death. Indeed, a favorite.

Pappa & Diddi on her Birthday
(This is their last picture together)

To say what Dadi's and Pappa's (Grand Pa) relation was in the midst of these contrasts of likes and dislikes... well, as kids we felt they were two individuals who stayed aloof probably because they didn't know each other. (Of course as kids you don't care to understand that they're a couple). Dadi had her own room. Pappa had his own... It sure had a lot of pictures of the two together. Dadi spent time with kids and mothers.  Pappa spoke with the fathers and spent time with the the gardeners (the sanjus, the gauris and the param das). As we grew up, we realized that they did talk and their way of talking was rather rowdy. So they fought and talked! A little later, as we grew into teenage, we realized that the love between them was in every action. In those red and yellow tablets that Grand Pa offered Dadi after every meal. In the fruits that Dadi cut for Pappa for his breakfast, when she was healthier. In Pappa's action of silently pointing the torch towards dadi's bed to check if she was ok, while going to the toilet in the night. In every moment that Dadi paused her night story and eavesdropped from her room to listen to what Pappa said in the living room. And yes, we realised their love when Dadi was breathing her last. And eventually when she was going... And now, when she's gone.

This was on Christmas last year and we were celebrating.
This Christmas, we were all mourning.

Dadi loved crowd in the house. She enjoyed having people over and cooked lavish meals for all the guests. When we'd gather for summer holidays. Dadi would sponser a meal for us..where she'd install an open kitchen and cook everything all by herself. That used to be a party!  And everyone's favorite food was sure to be a part of that menu. Even after i had left for Delhi, Dadi made sure i was supplied with everything that was made in the house on any occasion. I still have some of her hand-made food stocked in the boxes... I think i'll just let it be.

She deteriorated drastically after this time

Sometimes i feel she withered away too early..too quickly. There was so much i had to discuss with her about life, about growing up, about how she'd want me to be... I loved to push her into a paranoia. Like many other elders in the family, she feared that i'd find a man from a different religion -fall in love with him- and eventually marry him. All this paranoia took birth the day i got admitted into Jamia. She had her personal reservations and no matter how much ever you tried to dissuade her from her thought, she shuddered imagining anyone but a Hindu addition into her family. And we kids took advantage of her reactions and played along, often to spark a fierce outburst.

She spoke to me last in the first week of December. As i was leaving for Delhi that morning, she instructed Bua to get money from her closet. Keeping two hundred rupees in my hand she said, "Rakh le ... patanahi kab tak de paaon." I never wanted to believe her words. Lately, she'd begun talking too much about our life without her. She made farewells very conspicuous, and i hated it. I hated it because it indicated something that was inevitable, her death. One time, she gave me the saree of hers that i loved. The second time, she presented us neck chains. The third time, she left us memories.

About her death- She looked satisfied. Happy. Like her purpose was fulfilled. She was returning victorious.
She died a peaceful death with all of her family around her. Only i had remained. I didn't see her as she left us. I only saw her  frame leaving the house. I'd been feeling helpless and mentally unsettled about my absence that evening. We were all coping with the loss but somehow i couldn't stop regretting not being there.And that's when, a few days post her death i dreamt of her. Sometimes all logic fails and you're left wondering if  spiritual connections could surpass all the reason in life. She lay at the courtyard..lifeless..just as how i had seen her before they took her away. I saw her body lying in my baby bathtub..her frame barely fitting in that space. The people around me were the same, everyone preparing to see her off for one last time. That's when somebody just asked me to put a pillow under her head just to let her frame be comfortable...and just as i raised her body to put the pillow..she flipped and came back to life.  No one noticed her return..no one. And Dadi and  I talked for so long. She said, "I know you were sad that i couldn't talk to you before leaving..couldn't have that last conversation". And i just sat there..looking at her feeble face. She could barely get up, just the way she couldn't in her last days. We both knew that  those were just a few moments and that she'd be gone again. I told her i couldn't sleep without her..my feet wouldn't get warm. She looked at me , shed a few tears and said, 'I couldn't help it, i had to go'. I had a long long conversation with her. I knew they would take her away in sometime..and then as soon as she saw people approaching to take her away ..she gave one of her old looks ..just as how she'd look at me when she'd convince me to go to Nani's home..the look that said..'It's supposed to be this way... go for now, and meet me soon'..just that look..and then she got back to lifelessness. She'd come back to talk.

I've almost spent a night writing this. If she was alive, she'd be snoring at her loudest right now. I too would be sleeping tugging on to  one of her arms. This piece would have never been written. Life would have been the same- old , happy, fulfilled. Her room scares me now. I am not yet ready to feel its emptiness. She has left us with her stories. Now the walls, the quilts and I, we all stay awake and recall all the stories that she had shared with us. We don't want them to fade like her fragrance from the bed linen.

Once, in a winter spent away from her in Lucknow... I spotted a book called 'Diddi' written by Ira Pant. I didn't know the writer back then, nor the fact that she is one of our kins. I picked up the book because it said 'Diddi' and more so because these daughters addressed their mother as 'Diddi'. The book was written in the memory of the legendary writer 'Shivani' by her daughter Ira. I purchased the book with my own pocket money... i didn't want anyone to contribute to this possession. In all the excitement i returned home and called up Diddi. "There is a book i found by your name. This writer also calls her mother Diddi... and you know diddi...when you die..i will also write a book in your memory. I will call it Diddi."