accidentally caught a hindi movie on the tele on tuesday...

the scene was raghuvir yadav, guzzling tons of alcohol, and botching up his lines in a play, losing his job, going home dead drunk, in the dead of the night, begging for a drink from his brother, who had become the default guardian of his kids, then singing for it, while his kids secretly watched their professionally genius father sliding down life as an unloved shunned by all diehard alcoholic.

The next scene cut to shabana azmi ending that particular flashback to P Sahni.which is when i realised that the movie was saaz, the not so commerically successful film, made on the legendary sibling rivalry of the mangeshkar sisters, lata and asha. shabana playing asha....

somehow, this was one thing i had always wondered.......why the superior talented lata felt insecure about asha, that she had tried to thwart her younger sister's singing career.. as numerous gossip magazines used to print....it never really made sense. Until i saw that scene. suddenly it clicked. the envy was not just professional. there were layers of personal pain hidden behind a seeming professional rivalry.

if u had a father, who on one hand inspired your awe for his immense almost genius talent, (which he generously bestowed on all his children), and yet who shirked his fatherly responsibilities on to his 12 year old (maybe more, maybe less) eldest daughter, and who bravely, naturally, without a sense of favour, completely took up the responsibility, of nuturing the younger siblings by using her raw unpolished singing talents to fulfil the basic needs of food and shelter, whilst having had to fight numerous battles in the professional field, having to manupulate to get just grab a simple job of a chorus singer in the cutthroat hindi film industry, even though u know that u are better than most of the other leading singers of your time, the need for finding a godfather to get that all important first solo break, having to even perhaps sleep around ...and after having got the all important break, learn to manipulate the system so well, that you manage to push all ther other reigning singing queens to the background, and create a niche for yourself.. how can anybody in her shoes not resent it?

how wud she not resent being expected to sponsor her younger sister's career? im sure she wud have resented as hell, if asha expected lata to help kick start her own career based on her hard earned goodwill. she wud have resented having to give a career, to her younger sister, on a platter, since she herself never got anything other than the hard way...from the basic love that every child got by default from their parents, to the roof on the head, to the food on the table..when everything was a daily tiring struggle for the teenager, and who perhaps didnt not understand or appreciate the amount of struggles and compromises that she had put in, to set the ball to financial security and fame rolling...

i was discussing this with a friend yesterday..he seemed to think, that lata wudnt have wanted to stop her sister from singing cause of the reasons i state, it would more because she wud have wanted to protect her sister from the dark world taht the hindi film industry or any film industry for that matter was made of.

i should know. ive been there. all that lengthy discussions suddenly opened my own eyes to the truth that i had buried deep inside me, pushed so far away taht i never had to come to terms with it.


But perhaps, on second thoughts, maybe its my friend who is right...

Death of a grandmother

The morning was different.  After a relatively long time, I  wake up to a Monday morning with the feeling of having  had enough sleep, so much so, that  I wake up almost fresh, even if not rearing to go, instead of the usual I would give anything to get  five minutes more mood that pervades most Monday and other weekday mornings. I make a small mental note to try to settle down to sleep the exact time I settled down last night.

I start with my morning yoga (the current new phase) and am kneeling on the knees, vajrasan pose, eyes closed, taking deep breaths, when the mobile rings. I look up in irritation; my son looks up the name flashing from the handset. It’s from granny, he says, before handing over the mobile to me..this can’t be good, I decide, and since nobody was ill or in hospital, the totally odd phone call at 7am from mom could mean only one thing…  my sweetheart is no more… the dull dreaded I knew it feeling has already started taking seed, even as I flick the green button.. Granny is dead. She says simply. Whose granny, my son inquires anxiously, as I echo the news audibly to nobody is particular….my granny. I explain a bit angrily, angry, cause it is obvious, isn’t it? She is the older grandmother, so it’s her turn, before returning back to my mom. So are u going for the funeral?  I ask her tentatively.

 Here I must add, that though both my grandparents from my father’s side and my grandfather from my mom’s side, my father in law; all passed away only after I was an adult, married, with a kid to boot, I had not participated in any of their funerals, as they had all passed away in distant Kerala (one of the rare disadvantages of being kids to immigrant parents and married to immigrant sons),  I could always excuse my absence, blaming  the distance, and  personally too, I prefer it that way, if u don’t attend the funerals, they are not really dead, my logic tells me, and once u stop missing them, it doesn’t really matter. And somehow I’ve always been lucky (or unlucky), that I’ve always lost people important to me, when I was physically far away from the spot, and there was never a need to see the dead lifeless body, being put away, right before my eyes.

I don’t think I can, she answers,  in an anxious voice..dad is no longer able to travel, ur sister’s son has his board exams next week,…wait a minute, I interrupt, let me ask  hubby, he’s in the other room…I tell him, mom’s mom is dead, and she has nobody to go with..u go… he says, looking up from the newspaper… back of the mind, I wonder if mom is trying to wriggle out of the funeral, was she hoping I would back out too, so that she would have some legitimacy in the excuse of distances?( much later, during the flight I realize the reason for her hesitation…she was hoping I would say yes, but she feared that I wouldn’t find time to take her to her dead mother and her hopes  dashed badly) Okay, I tell her, we’ll go… Now, all jump to action, I silently wonder about the costs, as I start packing, hubby calls uncle,  asking  him  to delay the funeral, son rushes to the computer, to check the daily flights…. I had always thought that it would be no different this time too. Dad would take her to Kerala, they would burn her, I would get the news , that her body was laid to rest, and life would go on as if nothing had happened.

However, it was clear now that I was not going to miss the funeral. Not this one. At 43 years and some months, this would be my first major funeral, with regards to a death in the family of a close and much loved member. I would have to finally grow up, and look death in the eye, instead of playing with it, from far as I had always always try to do.

What are my memories of my 89 year old granny?

 The first memory is somehow of her telling me to wait outside the open bathroom door, as she passed her stools, and I cudnt help peeping in and noticing that the stools are black in color, somewhat like goat turds, and I remember, as a four year old, wondering if that is how my shit would be when I was that old..Granny in those days, was convalescing in our Mumbai home from her uterus operation(as there were no such facilities in her home town then).

Later memories, of when I am about 8, when we go to visit the village( and boy! was it a village) for the first time, the most prominent memory, of hers then is I asking loudly, to all and sundry, how do the eggs come inside the hen?, while my mom and her two sisters, and their brother, with their slightly sly smiles, pretended not to hear my question, she answers loudly, do u see that cock run behind the hen? Do u see him nailing her? . yes, I answer, he pulls her feathers out…(at least thats what I had made of that daily ritual) that’s how the eggs enter the hen, she says before sailing off…of course it made no sense, how cud u pull a feather, and put an egg inside the hen? But nobody explains further, they all have a look, now u know, so no more boring questions,  and much later as an adult  I remember the incident, that’s when i know what a  wonderfully different woman she is. Years later, I remember, she would hoard these really huge tumblers of milk(they always had cows and hens in their home), eggs and ripe mangoes for me, if she knew I was coming visiting, she knew these were my favorite foods, though I had outgrown them. I had to ask her to stop.

 Much much later I realized that there was more to grandmother than just a strong mind. She had an unweavering mind. She belonged to old school of life, where  manusmriti still reigned supreme. Except that, instead of a domineering husband, she had three domineering elder brothers. Mom’s constant complain was that she was never maternal (ive the same complaint against my mom, so I guess it runs in the family). But I think being a good daughter and sister took a lot from her, which left nothing for maternal love. When I witnessed the daily fights (during my yearly visits) with her daughter in law, I knew she wasn’t a good mother in law either.  Roles didn’t become her I think. She fared badly in roles. She was at her best when she was being herself, her domineering self… sans any roles or identities. Strong,  silent, no heart on sleeve.

         Once the tickets booked and the timings of the flight  clear, I decide to wash my hair…I remember, that I wont get to shampoo and condition it in Kerala, and would have to wash it daily as per norms, which rather spoils the hair, and I might as well use the rest of the  morning to pamper my hair. No, the day does not seem any different, If u over look the fact, that I’m not on the tube train on my way to work,  and that I will be in a different state,  by the end of the evening.

At the airport, I look for telltale signs. Is Mom going to turn on the water spouts? Or is she going to show any emotion at all…I was rather sure that it would be the second option and yes, I had prejudged right..We come from a family,  that scorns any kinds of emotional display, as a result of which tears don’t come easily to any of us, at least in such circumstances. I look at my sister (she has decided to come after all). She is fine too. We all seem fine. My brother who comes to pick us at the airport is fine too.

In the car, he ventures,” well its almost 3 months since ive last seen her. I always believe that she would not shrivel and die, if I visit her, just show her my face regularly”. He was slightly, just slightly regretful. I knew the reason for the regret. Things lately haven’t been good between my 89 year old grandmother and my 54 year old uncle and his wife. Things in fact were never good between my grand mom, and my aunt(her daughter in law). Of late, they were just getting worse. The last time I saw all them together, the barbs and taunts were so in the open, that u could sort of cut the ill feeling with a knife, as the saying goes. That his two sisters and their families stayed as the next door neighbours didn’t help matters any. It was getting rather difficult not getting caught up in the dramas, inspite of the polite I don’t want to be involved smiles, and opting out of the situation altogether seemed the only sane way out now. One of the best part of being a working woman, was that I could afford to give her money (visketam as its known in Kerala), whenever I go visiting(that’s once a year)…sometimes 100, sometimes 200, other times 500 bucks. She always loves getting the gift, as it validates her grandchild’s love for her.  The last time I gave her money though, she had tears in her eyes…how long will u keep giving this old women money, she whispered. I knew she was referring to how she was feeling unwanted by her son and daughter in law, and was wondering how long would it be before her grandchildren start taking her for granted too. I, as usual, give my polite I don’t want to be involved smile, mingled with genuine sorrow at my inability to sort things out for them.

Similarly, the last time I heared her voice was when I spoke to her on phone almost two months back. She had fallen in the loo, and hurt her leg, and it was my hubby who coaxed me to call her up and talk to her. I usually don’t call her on regular basis, I somehow safely assume that she would never be offended ; until sometimes I miss her so badly, that I call her up all of a sudden, and talk for enough time, that she is overflowing with happiness;  I always have my misgivings when im forced to talk as a result of a formality. And sure enough, the landline is first picked by my uncle, he passes it on to his wife, and then his daughter (  I almost feel they don’t want me to talk to her, as it makes her more spoilt and haughty in their opinion), and when I finally get through to her, its almost 10 minutes, since I’ve been talking formalities(so as to not to offend my uncle), and the warmth from my side is just not there.  And when I talk to her, in my mind, she can make out the lack of warmth, and feels rejected too. I make up my mind to call her when I’m in a fresh state of mind. Some other day. Except that, the some other day never came.

When we reach the house, her dead body was already brought home. It was kept in some long incubator kind of a machine. I look at the face - I had almost expected the face to be pulled in a grimace..most old people whose dead bodies I had seen had their faces twisted into grimaces as they would have been wildly grasping for their last breaths – but my granny’s last face is a bright smile. I’m really proud of her now. Not only did she remain hale and hearty, and in total control of her senses, but was also fiercely independent, physically(she even washed her own clothes almost till the end), and financially(she drew pension as my grandfathers widow) till the last breath, she even died smiling

We finally get the details, she had been complaining of terrible back pain for a day, ‘I won’t last.. this pain..it sure is my last breath” not much different from her usual rants, and  they decide to take her to the hospital, its more for her satisfaction, than any real belief in her pains, by morning, her back hurt so much, that her daughter suggested rather nastily, that she get some sleep, it would take her mind of the pain, and she slept, and that’s how she died…. in her sleep. I realize, that while she would have been grasping for her last breaths, I was sleeping  peacefully. I do feel a bit guilty about that. The funeral is scheduled for the next morning,  her niece from Chennai wants to participate at the funeral too. 

I look at my uncle. he sits with a forlorn expression, similar to the expressions u see in countless movies, of heroes who lose their mothers…the I’ve lost everything look…..i really wonder, is this how guys who lose their moms look, or does life imitate art? I remember one of my colleagues telling me once, the nothing compares to the mother son relationship.. he too was caught in a bad mother wife tussle. Except that my uncle was caught in the game for 25 long years and he had lost his patience . My uncle’s wife was looking fine. Just like we had done. She did not pretend to be sad at her mother in laws death. After all, she had put up with the old school stringent rules and regulations of my grandmother for too long without a murmur. Its rather easy to expect to forgive somebody who picked on each and every single thing u did ur entire married life, and very difficult to be on the forgiving side if on the receiving end..

My mother’s siblings look up at us as we enter the room, they have a silent word with each other, my mom and her sisters, and their almost calm faces break into fresh waves of sadness. The only person sobbing audibly in the room  was my cousin though. the tears were trickling non stop from her wideset eyes. I realize I have no tears to show for.

She was still sobbing uncontrollably the next day just before the funeral. They had emptied the incubator and kept her on the floor. It was the first time I am participating in this sort of function. I watch each and every action of all the people in the room very carefully. I still don’t feel any tears.  somebody asks all concerned to pay their last respects, now I falter. If I touch her dead body, im sure I would get involved. I don’t want to be involved. There was no point. But all are expecting me to pa y my last respects.  I stand in the line. I touch her legs. They are strong. They don’t seem dead. I touch them to my forehead. It makes me want to screw my face and cry. But again no tears come. I am my grandmother’s girl. No heart on sleeve. Bye granny, rest in peace. We all loved u. all in our own ways.  It’s just that we couldnt always get it across to u. Maybe u will never know. Or maybe u did, as u lay grasping for ur last breath. Maybe that’s the secret to death. Maybe its knowledge taht sets u free..