Sunanda ...
She came to meet me this time after two years.
While watching TV, late night, she was oiling my hair, when she popped up the question:
"Baal mein rang nahi lagaati hain naa Zohra Bi?"
Her youngest child got married recently.
"Shaadi mein bachchoN ne mere baal rang diye ... !!!"
We both smiled.
Every time she comes, I meet not only her, but also a past that only she can bring back.
And what is so strangely stunning is that she remembers me much more and much better than I remember myself.
She reminds me of my teenage with such heartfelt affection.
And I wonder if its the power of her memory or the power of her love that she remembers so much, so well ?
But then perhaps our circumstances were so destined that she needed to have an outstanding memory while mine were such that forgetting was a better way to a healthy life ahead.
Whatever it was, together we relived our diverse childhood and adolescence in an era of radio and romance.
She came from the poorest of the poor.
Her father had died before I came in touch with her.
Short, round faced, dark complexioned girl, with messy curly hair that used to be tied in what looked a very haphazard plait.
Dressed in faded frocks or skirt-blouses, she was not much of a sight.
Her family stayed in the hutment just across the road, not far from our colony.
Her mother used to work as a helper in my house. And this girl used to accompany her mother to work.
So while I went to school she cleaned my room or did the jhadoo-katka......!!!
Sometimes when her mother was sick, Sunanda came along with an even smaller companion:
Her younger sister.
And now after sailing with the tide, having almost drowned at times, in our varied worlds, we both have come a long way .
My adolescence was beautiful. Comfortable. Carefree.
How could hers be as good too.... ?
Was she envious of the kind of life I had ....???
The way she laughs remembering those days when she and her sister had to do "ghar-kaam" in other people's houses, under the strict vigil of the Lady-of-the-House, I think she still had snatched enough fun moments to keep her sweetness and youthfulness alive forever ........
Her misty eyes come alive with a rare glitter as she remembers those imli-kairi days.
She told me what I looked like as a school-going girl.
That I did not speak much.
That after coming home from school I would be confined to my room with books.
At times holding the transistor close to my heart, like a mother carries her small infant, I would be listening to Vividh Bharati.
And there were times we would set the record player at top volume and hear the Long Play records blasting away to glory ......
Honestly I don't remember all this in so much detail .....
She also remembers what my mother did in the kitchen.
She even remembers that old black grinding stone on which she was made to make fine pastes of masalaas for the qorma that my mother's Maasi would prepare on her visit to our house.
The aroma of Maasi's qorma comes alive as Sunanda remembers Maasi's instructions so vividly:
"Suninda ! Aur bariik piiso"
She also remembers that heavy brass thaali in our kitchen, in which her mother would knead the flour .....
Talking of her mother she remembers how she would beat Sunanda black and blue if she ever asked for as small a thing as a toffee
She would walk down long and difficult path to get water and wood for her family kitchen
Yet she is delighted and filled with joy in remembering those days.
And I am happy she has not forgotten any of it. Because in her arduous life I get a glimpse of my cheerful teenage that strangely I seem to have forgotten .....
I realized once again .... this time with a sense of gratitude to this woman who shares history with me that the measure of preciousness of a gift is not in its monetary value.
It is always in the emotions.
She came to meet me this time after two years.
While watching TV, late night, she was oiling my hair, when she popped up the question:
"Baal mein rang nahi lagaati hain naa Zohra Bi?"
Her youngest child got married recently.
"Shaadi mein bachchoN ne mere baal rang diye ... !!!"
We both smiled.
Every time she comes, I meet not only her, but also a past that only she can bring back.
And what is so strangely stunning is that she remembers me much more and much better than I remember myself.
She reminds me of my teenage with such heartfelt affection.
And I wonder if its the power of her memory or the power of her love that she remembers so much, so well ?
But then perhaps our circumstances were so destined that she needed to have an outstanding memory while mine were such that forgetting was a better way to a healthy life ahead.
Whatever it was, together we relived our diverse childhood and adolescence in an era of radio and romance.
She came from the poorest of the poor.
Her father had died before I came in touch with her.
Short, round faced, dark complexioned girl, with messy curly hair that used to be tied in what looked a very haphazard plait.
Dressed in faded frocks or skirt-blouses, she was not much of a sight.
Her family stayed in the hutment just across the road, not far from our colony.
Her mother used to work as a helper in my house. And this girl used to accompany her mother to work.
So while I went to school she cleaned my room or did the jhadoo-katka......!!!
Sometimes when her mother was sick, Sunanda came along with an even smaller companion:
Her younger sister.
And now after sailing with the tide, having almost drowned at times, in our varied worlds, we both have come a long way .
My adolescence was beautiful. Comfortable. Carefree.
How could hers be as good too.... ?
Was she envious of the kind of life I had ....???
The way she laughs remembering those days when she and her sister had to do "ghar-kaam" in other people's houses, under the strict vigil of the Lady-of-the-House, I think she still had snatched enough fun moments to keep her sweetness and youthfulness alive forever ........
Her misty eyes come alive with a rare glitter as she remembers those imli-kairi days.
She told me what I looked like as a school-going girl.
That I did not speak much.
That after coming home from school I would be confined to my room with books.
At times holding the transistor close to my heart, like a mother carries her small infant, I would be listening to Vividh Bharati.
And there were times we would set the record player at top volume and hear the Long Play records blasting away to glory ......
Honestly I don't remember all this in so much detail .....
She also remembers what my mother did in the kitchen.
She even remembers that old black grinding stone on which she was made to make fine pastes of masalaas for the qorma that my mother's Maasi would prepare on her visit to our house.
The aroma of Maasi's qorma comes alive as Sunanda remembers Maasi's instructions so vividly:
"Suninda ! Aur bariik piiso"
She also remembers that heavy brass thaali in our kitchen, in which her mother would knead the flour .....
Talking of her mother she remembers how she would beat Sunanda black and blue if she ever asked for as small a thing as a toffee
She would walk down long and difficult path to get water and wood for her family kitchen
Yet she is delighted and filled with joy in remembering those days.
And I am happy she has not forgotten any of it. Because in her arduous life I get a glimpse of my cheerful teenage that strangely I seem to have forgotten .....
I realized once again .... this time with a sense of gratitude to this woman who shares history with me that the measure of preciousness of a gift is not in its monetary value.
It is always in the emotions.
