Pishimaa

Pitter-patter, the first raindrops fell from a rapidly darkening sky.
"Pishimaa, brishti podchche"(it is raining, auntie) someone's panic stricken voice called out.
At the coast of the mighty Ganges, weather could be as fickle as the mood of an elephant in' musth'.
Within matter of minutes, a sunny weather was replaced by thundering clouds,a gray sky cover and stiff breeze which threatened to blow away Pishimaa's billowing saree.
We had come to the Kali-temple at the coast , with its mammoth statue of the fearsome Goddess, crimson tongue hanging out of a shiny black face, body covered with full length, gigantic garlands of red and gold.
Now we had to get back home.
The breeze , hitherto pleasant, swiftly turned into a raging, roaring wind, swirling dust-leaves-pooja flowers-raindrops into a spiralling vortex.
The' panda'(priest) swiftly placed his stool, box of offerings and plate of frankinscence inside,said three namoahs(salutations)in quick succession ,locked the temple door, and beat a hasty retreat, gathering his dhoti folds in one hand and fumbling with a rebellious umbrella in the other.
'Ebaar ki?'(what now?)
We all turned to face Pishimaa.
'Bojjat kothakar'(the b*****d). Pishimaa thought nothing of swearing at a holy man on the holy grounds.Rapidly falling raindrops had already soaked her thin saree. We had one umbrella between five of us, four of us kids, and Pishimaa."He has locked us out , or we could have taken shelter in the temple."
'Dont worry. Together, we will make it. Haath dhoro(hold hands),everybody.'
'Now, dont look up, bend your head down, shut your eyes, and walk straight ahead.'
She smiled a reassuring smile, revealing paan-stained dentures, rivulets of rainfall coursing down her swarthy face.Plus the firm determination in her eyes, and we could be staring at the Goddess herself.
'Joi Maa Kaali'
Some one shrieked in pure ecstacy,and the rest quickly followed suit .
'Joi Maa kali'
So a pathetic group of stragglers emerged from the green canopy of the temple , holding hands, plastered wet,ploughing through in a V -formation(like migrating geese) braving sleet, and occasional burst of fierce wind slapping against them. Pishimaa led the way, being the adult, we kids clinging to her bangled hands like limpets.
The lone umbrella had freed itself from the grasp of one of us, after a brief and futile struggle, and was now merrily floating above the churning, grey ,frothy Ganges , serenading the trumpeting clouds .
With occasional chants of' Joi Joggonnnath' and 'joi maa kali' the group winded its way, through the concrete path lining the  wooden floored, British-made bungalows; Past the stately Officer's Club (dating back to 1910), the newly made three floored presidential suites,past the rusting wrought-iron gates of a massive , mysterious, creeper choked Railway godown(the gates jangled noisily, numerous ghost stories about this place filled our hearts with dread, )We held Pishimaa's wet slippery hands a bit tighter.Past the fresh water tap,a scene of daily commotion amongst servants, to finally reaching 13C, our seven storied block,where Pishimaa lived on 3rd floor and we on the 2nd. Things became trickier here as the banging, abandoned windows of the passageways constantly rained shards of broken glass on the passersby downbelow.Now aided with the rain, thunder and gusty wind, added to tightly shut eyes,there was no other way than to make a dash for it.
Which we did and landed home, soaked to skin, having had a time of our lives; to a rousing welcome from worried sick parents; fussing over with towels and tea.
Onu Pishimaa was our neighbour, and a confidante` to everyone. She would be there with sound advise and  sweet as rosogolla smile when my brother's bulk broke the master bed, when we had scarily high fever, when someone had teenage angst, when my mother was hospitalised.Practically, in every difficult moment of our lives.
She was also the Chief Matron of the Railway hospital, and a gazzetted officer.
She hailed from Medinipore district of West Bengal. Braving ridicule at her humble origins, she made it to the very top of the ladder through grit,hard work and wisdom.
She never married, didnot ever have a family of her own(so to speak); but her spacious flat would be bursting at seams with relatives from her village, her widowed sister, her elder brother's four kids, her youngest brother,their pots of crabs (from the village ponds) , pet ducks, all lived in her home and heart.
Her real beauty lay in her generosity. In the later years, so we heard, she even called her aged and ailing mother to live with her.
Two of these kids were married off from her home, the two sons were employed in the railways and her siblings continued to stay with her, even when she retired.
She was one of the first to own a TV in the building , and all were welcome to see Chitrahaar, hear news, watch movies while being generously plied with hot snacks from her kitchen.One of the memories is of watching "I love lucy" at seven in the morning, and sharing pishimaa's toast and egg breakfast as she got ready for work in a small, agarbatti- scented room full of sai-baba photographs.
She had to work harder in a private nursing home , after retirement, to keep up with the spiralling expenses of her' family'. The night shift duties(something she had not done during her administrative years in the Railways) finally took their toll. Battling with persistent cough, she was found to have cardiac-failure.
Finally, it was time to bid goodbye to a very full and busy life.
When the priest at the crematorium asked, Who is the son?,( for the last rites)
There were four-five contenders.
They all had tears in their eyes, and they all looked like her, short, dark, with glistening, determined eyes.
None of them was her' son' or probably all were.
 The smoke billowed heavenward, on huge gathering,a Kalighat temple full of people.
'Vaasudhaiv kutumbakam'(the universe is my kin)