For my Maa

“I NEED to talk to you now” and she listened. It was nearer 3 am than 2, her time, but she listened. To a vague, “I am not feeling very OK, but am fine” repeated and re-repeated.

She always does listen. Except when she is driving. Even then, she parks by the side of Bhowali road amidst the mad mayhem of truck horns and over-packed jeeps, the cacophony of street hawkers trying to sell car cloths, dish mops, jeans, decals, anything to unsuspecting tourists. And then talks awhile- even if it is something like “Kaalu Binks, how is your Honey beti doing?”

And runs impossible errands. Spectacles, Contact Lenses and kaju mithai transported from India, god knows what troubles she went to, with defunct telephone lines, unreliable wireless carriers from faraway Bhimtal.

And sends parcels. Addressed in beautifully rounded capitals, “MS ALANKRITA PANDEY” with hand written letters- to be kept and treasured. As exciting as the one she had written on the flight to Calcutta in ’87 on NCERT work, or the one she wrote when she went trekking- she hand delivered that one.

Maa, the nicestestestest mother in the world. “She is a PROFESSOR in Astrophysics”, I would proudly proclaim, adding in an aside “My Babba is too” Somehow she was always there for birthday parties and shape- cakes, for SUPW ordeals, and for those awful mental Arithmetic Sessions “No, you will NOT write down the calculations” on the spot cruelties-I called them preferable over Babba’s agonizing, “two more sums for each one you get wrong” teaching methods.

And later when we lost him, battling her demons, somehow she became my mainstay. Friend more than parent. Vulnerable and weak, and very unjustly denied what was her due. Not that it prevented her from going in for expensive lawsuits where justice prevailed at a snails pace. Yes, there were Principles to stand up for, she would not give up. Where did she garner the energy, the fortitude, Stubborn, no, just determined, just a “lambi race ka ghoda”.

And somehow retained that sense of humor. That makes her a delight to tell stories too. Risque sometimes, but somehow I feel more comfortable talking thataway with her than with a lot of my peers. Because she understands. And acknowledges the desire to be me, why not, she was the one to nurture it. The “different-ness”, the non-conformity. “I like you to do the things I was too shackled to do” but within responsible limits. And somehow in the face of that, the only certificate I will ever need is one from her, that she is proud of me.

The “Kalu Binks” is a separate story


For the non-Hindi speaking

Beti= daughter
kaju mithai= cashew and milk sweets-my favorites.
lambi race ka ghoda= long distance runner, literally a horse who wins on the longest race track
Kalu Binks= black Binks, Bink was my “canine cocktail” dog who died