"When I die , I would like to have my ashes submerged in the Varanasi ."
This was a refrain with her almost . She would be busy , in the kitchen , supervising cooking ; on the rooftop , monitoring the drying corn cobs / rice grains , shading her eyes from the sun and scanning her vast empire of lush green paddy fields ; in the bedroom , rifling through a teenagers school bags for forbidden love letters . All of a sudden , she would emerge , and declare
"cremate me in the Ganges ."
She would be so full of life , that the thought of death was never far . The concept of her mortality would appear, to us , jocular , an impossibility , like men going to mars . But she was serious . In one rare moment when she caught a breather , in an afternoon full of bespectacled scripture reading , the sceptre of death , fleeting , powerful , would peek at her , from inside pages of thousands year old Puranas , and she would emerge ,teary eyed from the Pooja room , "When I die ......." We would look at each other and sigh , with teenage impatience , "here we go again ."
Either it was the wisdom of the holy books ; or her rigorously religious lifestyle , she wouldn't eat without bathing and worshipping ; something told her that the end is near . I wish we had a similar premonition . We would have measured out the days , and lived patiently , treasuring each moment . Not that she wasn't cherished much by everyone whom she met and touched their lives with generosity and kindness .
*************
Some four to five years down the line , most of her grandchildren , including me , had flown the coop . At the wedding of her eldest grandchild , she had to shift base and move to the great city of Calcutta .
We didn't know at that time , but Providence was striving to fulfil her wishes .
The rest , in retrospect , reads like a scripted story . After the wedding , she fell ill violently . Was hospitalised , Liver carcinoma with mets diagnosed , one month of agony filled swaying between coma and wakefulness . Finally at peace , on 21st of June , 1988 , the brightest day of the year . Needless to say , She was cremated in Calcutta , next to the Ganges , the holiest of all holy rivers , for all Hindus .
My everlasting image of that day is my grandfather , sitting in a taxi , the urn of her ashes in his lap , monsoon thundering in a dramatic outpouring of rain , wipers dancing ineffectually , on a windscreen ,drops falling in torrential rage and grief.
In the haze of events that followed , her ashes were brought back home , 1000 km inland , away from Ganges . Why ? Either no one cared , or the powers that be , were so shrouded in grief , that they couldn't see or remember any of the last wishes . We too , are to blame , for not only had we laughed at her , we also had conveniently forgotten her last wish . And let a gross error take place .
Twenty five years later , with a loving husband and two beautiful long haired girls in tow , I visited Varanasi . For the first time in my life . My husband is not a Hindu , but he remembered my childhood stories . In the fading afternoon light , we rented a boat and rowed to the centre of the river .
That is when my beloved better half told me , out of the blue , "Now is the time to pray for your grandmother ."
I was not a male descendant , I had not married a Hindu , but I cupped my hands with the holy water , faced the sun , and let the water slide down my fingers , in a tradition as old as time . I remembered her , who was a grandparent , a parent , a mentor , all in one . I told her , in my heart of hearts " There , I prayed for you at Varanasi ."
Somewhere , from the depths of time , I am sure She heard me , and thanked me . I had interred her memories , if not her ashes , in Varanasi ,that holiest of holy Hindu city .
This was a refrain with her almost . She would be busy , in the kitchen , supervising cooking ; on the rooftop , monitoring the drying corn cobs / rice grains , shading her eyes from the sun and scanning her vast empire of lush green paddy fields ; in the bedroom , rifling through a teenagers school bags for forbidden love letters . All of a sudden , she would emerge , and declare
"cremate me in the Ganges ."
She would be so full of life , that the thought of death was never far . The concept of her mortality would appear, to us , jocular , an impossibility , like men going to mars . But she was serious . In one rare moment when she caught a breather , in an afternoon full of bespectacled scripture reading , the sceptre of death , fleeting , powerful , would peek at her , from inside pages of thousands year old Puranas , and she would emerge ,teary eyed from the Pooja room , "When I die ......." We would look at each other and sigh , with teenage impatience , "here we go again ."
Either it was the wisdom of the holy books ; or her rigorously religious lifestyle , she wouldn't eat without bathing and worshipping ; something told her that the end is near . I wish we had a similar premonition . We would have measured out the days , and lived patiently , treasuring each moment . Not that she wasn't cherished much by everyone whom she met and touched their lives with generosity and kindness .
*************
Some four to five years down the line , most of her grandchildren , including me , had flown the coop . At the wedding of her eldest grandchild , she had to shift base and move to the great city of Calcutta .
We didn't know at that time , but Providence was striving to fulfil her wishes .
The rest , in retrospect , reads like a scripted story . After the wedding , she fell ill violently . Was hospitalised , Liver carcinoma with mets diagnosed , one month of agony filled swaying between coma and wakefulness . Finally at peace , on 21st of June , 1988 , the brightest day of the year . Needless to say , She was cremated in Calcutta , next to the Ganges , the holiest of all holy rivers , for all Hindus .
My everlasting image of that day is my grandfather , sitting in a taxi , the urn of her ashes in his lap , monsoon thundering in a dramatic outpouring of rain , wipers dancing ineffectually , on a windscreen ,drops falling in torrential rage and grief.
In the haze of events that followed , her ashes were brought back home , 1000 km inland , away from Ganges . Why ? Either no one cared , or the powers that be , were so shrouded in grief , that they couldn't see or remember any of the last wishes . We too , are to blame , for not only had we laughed at her , we also had conveniently forgotten her last wish . And let a gross error take place .
Twenty five years later , with a loving husband and two beautiful long haired girls in tow , I visited Varanasi . For the first time in my life . My husband is not a Hindu , but he remembered my childhood stories . In the fading afternoon light , we rented a boat and rowed to the centre of the river .
That is when my beloved better half told me , out of the blue , "Now is the time to pray for your grandmother ."
I was not a male descendant , I had not married a Hindu , but I cupped my hands with the holy water , faced the sun , and let the water slide down my fingers , in a tradition as old as time . I remembered her , who was a grandparent , a parent , a mentor , all in one . I told her , in my heart of hearts " There , I prayed for you at Varanasi ."
Somewhere , from the depths of time , I am sure She heard me , and thanked me . I had interred her memories , if not her ashes , in Varanasi ,that holiest of holy Hindu city .
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