The primal red churidar, accompanied by a coin-sized red bindi, reminded me of my great grandmother’s niece. I’m told, she too draped a deep red nine-yard saree, albeit minus a bodice and bindi. She was the child widow in the joint family on the maternal side of my father. Her presence was always felt not seen, is how he remembered her. ‘Ba’, was the mysterious girl in the household of nearly thirty.
Ba would normally wake up before the crack of dawn, prepare her one meal for the day and melt into the contours of the day. Her presence would be felt most certainly behind the ancient wooden doors that creaked softly, acknowledging her. Not that she eavesdropped, it was her way of participating in the affairs of the families.
But, if you did wish to meet her in person, she would be in the cowshed, tending the cows especially at calf birth. She would also be in the far end of the spacious devghar or Pooja room, counting the beads, as her lips moved in silent prayers. At other times, she would fix the diyas or lamps, or she would lose herself in cleaning, sweeping, and applying fresh cow dung in the devgarh. She was the immaculate, revered, touch me not, blossom in the family.
It was a wonder she permitted the village barber to tonsure her head, which happened religiously almost every Sunday. It was said, she once had long lustrous brown tresses, she was extremely fair with hazel brown eyes. And everyone had envisaged a happy married life for her. Unfortunately, destiny had something else in store for her.
She deftly covered her brazen bald head, her forehead as also her entire being with her deep red saree. In fact nothing much was visible of her, except her fair exquisite hands, and tiny feet. She must have been not more than 4 feet 3 inches. She was lean, at times it appeared she was drowned in the yards and yards of red yarn.
She refused to look at anyone in the eyes, not even kids. And if you did, those were the most expressive windows of the soul, they spoke excitedly and torrentially, except that it was inaudible to the naked ear. She never uttered a word. Nobody remembered when she last said a word, moreover it mattered little. No one knew her age either. She just happened to be there. No beginning, no end, timeless in a way.
The ‘master’ was how the teacher was addressed back then, taught basic reading and writing to the innumerable kids of the entire joint family. He wore the conventional white dhoti, white kurta with a worn out black jacket and a black topi. It is said that this master had taken up the issue of Ba and had pleaded with the head of the family to continue her studies, which was not taken kindly. Such revolutionary thoughts were sacrileges especially for a widow. He was promptly replaced by another grumpy master who indulged more in canning rather than teaching. Ba’s desire to study further was squashed.
My father and his family migrated to Bombay, only to comeback after Goa was liberated. Ba had unfortunately passed into history, but her thirst for knowledge reflected in me, is how my father saw it. Strange, perhaps true.
