Recapitulating the past has been my favourite pastime. So much so, sometimes the lady of the house would shout from the kitchen, “I say I hear you speaking to yourself. Your good old days, again?”
Against this backdrop when I got an opportunity to visit my mother’s youngest brother, (Mamaji as I call him - and ‘Ramachandran Anna’, my wife), the senior-most in our maternal family at 90, it was something that I really looked forward to. He is hale and hearty, does seven rounds of walk in his park morning and evening as he recites Vishnu Sahasranamam once Lalitha Sahasranamam. Rudram, Chamakam, Suktams and Upanishads get their turn back home.
For me, he is my friend, philosopher and guide, and mentor, though we were born just four years apart. He taught me how to swim, including do somersault jump into the village tank from the higher platform built. He helped me learn how to ride a bicycle, including how to jump-sit on to the seat instead of balancing with the pedal. That is a different thing that once while attempting it in the presence of village boys and girls, my dhoti fell apart.
Mamaji is very good at pencil drawing and tried to teach me the art but gave it up. Futile. Gifted with a good handwriting which drew admiration from both school and college teachers, he tried to extend this benefit too to me but stopped short of making sure my handwriting did not carry traces of doctor’s prescription - the best he could do.
He and Angichi, his immediate elder sister - and the last two children of our grandparents - were very protective of me against the villagers in total disregard to who was right and who was wrong – me invariably. For them I was the youngest nephew living under the same roof and I had to be protected.
Mamaji was also the lead singer of the village Bhajan group. He played Ganjira simultaneously. When his hands got tired, or when he rendered a number rather at length, he would hand down the Ganjira to me with explicit instructions just to synchronize the beat and not attempt any nuances. I was happy; I was the owner of the instrument at that moment. And, when the attendance thinned, he would give me the floor for a lead song the highlight of which was often tempo rather than melody.
We also recalled instances when there might not be any prasadam-sponsor for the Ekadasi bhajan. On such occasions, our co-resident who ran a petty shop in bazar would agree to bring six bananas before closing shop – on condition that he would be the lead singer at least for six songs. The sad part was that the songs and taal were far apart in his renderings. We would put up with it. We wanted an uninterrupted Ekadasi bhajan. On such occasions the tacit agreement among the core group was that we would continue with the bhajan till the number of attendees reduced to six so that we did not have to cut the bananas for distribution. Each one would get one full.
Veerumani mama (name changed), who normally hit the bed at 8.30 pm attended the session once. When it was way past 9.30 he slipped out. The number became just six. We sang Mangalam, did deeparadhanai in record time, and were relishing the banana. He suddenly resurfaced and saw us mouthful. He had gone out to pee, and we mistook that he had gone home. He got very angry and swore to tell our parents of our misdeeds in the name of bhajan.
Back here, it was only 3.30 in the afternoon, the sky had already become cloudy alerting us that it might rain any time. Priya, his daughter, hurried to the kitchen and came out with snacks and aromatic coffee. We gulped and hurried to the taxi before it started drizzling.
“I think hereafter we should spend time with them more often,” I told my wife as we got into the taxi. “Yes, like we tell when we leave Howrah or New Delhi station and forget all about it when we cross Burdwan or Nizamuddin,” retorted my wife, always on the prowl.
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