I lost my granddad when I was a year old. So the two brothers of my Grandma were the only grandfatherly figures I got to have. Although they were Mamaji – Bade and Chote, to my father, but, as kids do, we used to address them as Mamaji too mimicking the elders. I very vividly remember that somewhere around the age of 10, when the family pedigree and all the relationships started getting clear, I decided to correct this mistake by addressing the Bade Mamaji as Dadaji, but the looks of surprise cooled off my ardour quite quick, and after much leg-pulling on my personal attempt at this correction, we kids reverted back to calling them Mamaji.
Both the Mamajis are younger than my grandmother, and her rotund NRI elder sister – the Grandma Sr (who we used to address as Moti Mum, which she was cool enough to not take any offence to). The Chote Mamaji, as may be expected, was the cooler one of the group, whose home used to be the junction for all the parties and get-togethers. Whenever Moti Mum, or any other NRI relatives of the clan visited, they landed straight at the place of Chote Mamaji. The fragrance of mutton-chicken cooking (which was a prized commodity at that time due to its rarity), the hubbub of kids, the cable TV network, the nonstop run of CID and Aahat with all kids huddled around the TV in the bedroom amidst the luggage and vilayati gifts, and the peg sessions in the living room (which was BTW the most luxurious room of their house) are some of the memories which are still so fresh in my memory. The six-fingered, or Chhanga as he was informally called, Bade Mamaji was the stricter one. With the label of being a family man having been hijacked by the Chote Mamaji, he was an alpha in the home. So boastful, so proud and so strict, he used to be the mythical Boogeyman to set spoilt kids straight. “Would you like an ice-cream? A small scoop or a bigger one?” may sound like a very rewarding question to any normal kid, but with Bade Mamaji, it used to be a euphemism for corporal punishment, the size of the scoop signifying the level of it. His authority may be judged from his talent of making such a benign question look like a real threat just with the sarcasm and tone of his voice. The earliest memory of Bade Mamaji is him holding an almost empty glass of whisky over his mouth waiting for that last drop of his drink to fall on his outstretched tongue, the empty bottle of whisky rolling beside him, and that is the moment when the 5 year old me started holding him in awe and became scared of him at the same time. He was the liquor expert, used to bring his own booze to the party and used to drink the most. He could scare away the naughty children just with a look of his eyes. As the legend goes, and my maternal aunts tell me, just the sound of him calling out their name angrily was enough to scare them shitless.
But there are some good memories of him that I would remember too. Every time I used to accompany my Grandma to his home on Rakshabandhan, he used to bless me with a Neg (a gift of money considered auspicious) too, which despite my repeated refusals (as taught to each Indian child), he used to keep in my hand, and top it off with that angry look, which put all my protests to rest. As we grew old, he used to be the one most proud about our achievements in life, almost to the point of boasting. He might not be much vocal about it but the glint in his eyes used to say it all. As I think of him, so much comes to mind – his old two-toned scooter, his printed starched turbans – his unique style, his tiny joodi, which was so tiny that it used to travel on its own. Once me and my brother saw him took off his turban after coming home from a long day of work, and his tiny bun of hair had travelled much far than its official assigned position. This incident kept me and my brother giggling for long, and ‘Bade Mamaji di joodi da Qissa’ is still a funny anecdote etched on our minds.
I received a call from my mother while at work today. She seldom calls me at work. She had called to inform that Bade Mamaji had passed away this morning, due to a heart attack. I was shook by the news. On reaching his home, it was a scene of crying and consoling. Relatives were gathering, the pier was being made from wood to carry his dead body and all the relatives were remembering him with their own small memories of him.
I may not have spent much time with him, but I spent an important part of my life with him, which was also one of the happiest and carefree times in my life. As we grow old, and get busy in “important” things in life, we sometimes forget about the valuable stuff. In the race to become more successful, wealthy, or productive, we forget to make memories. It was my first time at anybody’s cremation, and seeing all the activity made me realize that all of us come with our own countdown timers. This life is temporary, and the end is sure, but what stays is the memories – the teary eyed faces bemoaning the departure and the smiles reminiscing the good memories. The world stands still for a day as we hark back, and press the Pause Button.
As the Final Yatra culminated at the Ram Bagh and I made a retreat back home through the busy streets of the market, and seeing the traffic of life – so unaffected, so resilient – I felt that death may be a truth of its own, but the moments that we are living and the time that we have over here, however finite it may be, are no less of a truth. Come what may, carrying the luggage of lost travellers, the show goes on.
You will be missed Bade Mamaji.
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