Happy Birthday, to a remarkable woman

She could swim the entire length of the Hussain Sagar and back.

Her Gurukul education also had her well-versed in Sanskrit and the Martial arts.

Her beauty and grace rivalled Gayatri Devi or Leela Naidu.

She played the Harmonium, and sang beautifully and evocatively.

When circumstances worked against her, she worked hard to singlehandedly raise and educate her children; she wrote down  400 pages of a text book with her own hand so that her son could study, because she did not have money to buy the book.

She was called the ‘Iron Lady,’ for her never say die spirit.

Her name was ‘Shanti’, and indeed, she was the epitome of peace; she never raised her voice, disliked conflict in others, and came out of poverty and hardship retaining a benevolence towards the world.

She had the highest respect for every human being; she spoiled the servants, offering more biscuits for their tea, for example.

When her son fell ill, and his legs hurt, it was natural that she should press them, no matter that she herself was weak and suffering all the problems that come with age.

To me, she was just a beloved grandmother, who spoiled me, took care of me when my parents were at work, nagged me to eat when I refused, indulged me with stories, and loved me.

Sindhara

सिंधारा, celebrated on the second day of the Shukla Paksha (waxing phase of moon) of Shravan, is essentially a women's festival. I know not, exactly, the rituals and ceremonies that go with it- mehendi, new clothes, swinging on झूला s, and gifts of fruit and corn and a token amount of money.


To me and jiji, it brings back memories of... oh, when we were little girls, the evening of the festival, दादीमा would sit us on the rocking chair ('twas a difficult task, to be sure, getting us both to sit still), sing us a lovely song--we couldn't make out the words, but she had a beautiful voice, and the song wrapped itself around us, notes hanging in the air in perfect pitch and no melody at all, just rhythm of her breathing... oh, I do believe I make no sense at all--while rocking the chair back and forth, and give us a rupee (or two, or five, as the years went by) each. We'd run off to the shop as soon as she was done to buy eclairs. 


We did not realize it then, but, you see, this was our world- mine, jiji's and dadima's: free spirits, indulgence, and a beautiful song. 'tis sindhara tomorrow: to me, it is simply another reason to go back to that little world, for a while... to feel my dadi's presence- warm, rich, and loving- wrapping itself around me.