Today is 7th of November 2010. My first day, without Thamma, has started. I looked into newspapers and TV channels with great interest but don't know what was I looking for.Did I expect the whole world to stop and mourn the demise of my most precious one- my grandma. Certainly, I didn't. She is no Barack Obama or Amitabh Bachchan! But indeed,she was my world. May be I didn't realize it while she was still there. But as the chances of her survival diminished I bled inside failed to imagine how am I going to carry on without her.For past two months, my day started with a call to my dad inquiring about her well being, what did she have for dinner last night, did she sleep well, can I talk to her now and all. This morning, physically like any other mornings,I found myself toying with my phone and wondering is there any need to call. My family back at home are busy with their endless chores and this call will interrupt that. I can't be there, all I can do is call them up and what? Ending up disturbing them! One person left and the world changed!
When I look back and think of any incident from my childhood, I see her-a small frail figure of barely 4'11" in white saree with red, orange or blue border draped in ethnic Bengali style, a small vermillion dot on even smaller forehead. Contrary to her external fragile look, she had some powerful bearing that none of us- four of her grandchildren, son and daughter in law could dare to defy her. Rarely, we were not allowed to do certain things but none of us could question her or negotiate on her decision.
My Thamma was one lady, so different from others of her age. When other grandmoms spent time reading scriptures, she would read newspapers minutely, read literature and obviously magazines.We inherited our reading habit from her. It was my responsibility to read out recipes that we could prepare in our modest kitchen- that is the recipes that didn't require oven, beef, pork, or some ingredient that is difficult to obtain in a small town. We were three sisters and never once she said that at least one of her granddaughters should get married just because she is growing old.And she was the only person who didn't say so. Eventually, when we got married she never said that she wants to see her great grandchildren- again the only person on this whole world not to say a word on this intensely personal matter. Ever since I have seen her, she was conscious of her space and her world, and she respected ours.
I remember writing letters even before I got admission in school or my sister reciting Tagore's poems when she could barely speak. Books remained our primary charm of going to Kolkata where our relatives had a separate room for books or we could buy books from stores that kept fiction too, another facility that our small town lacked. I speak or write Bengali better than people ridiculing me for hailing from Bihar/Jharkhand- courtsey my Thamma.
Unlike the other ladies of her age, may be she was not the master of rare Bengali delicacies. Even if she was, I did not know because I always saw my mamma cooking the main course. But indeed, she was the master chef when it came to Payesh or lipsmacking snacks. We, the siblings, boasted that no one can cook payesh like her and she enjoyed basking in that glory. Sunday morning started with varieties of breakfast option. When there was nothing else to cook, the resort was luchi torkari. Else, Sunday morning meant special breakfasts- Alur chop (potato fritters), obviously without muri (rice crispies), singara, fuchka, alu paratha, sattu paratha and what not. Her personal favorite food item was alur chop or mutton curry and fried rice made by mamma. With her at helm, we even had dimer devil (devilled egg),phulkopir shingara (samosa with cauliflower stuffing)or masala dosa from some vendor on van for our dinner. Something unimaginable for average Bengali family.
In my Std I, when I was told that people die when they grow old and I knew my Thamma was growing old because I could see silver threads in her hair, I shuddered at that thought. I even wept secretly and when the beans were spilled everybody laughed out aloud. Yes, that was more than 25 years ago. After a quarter of century, I was not a dumb to think that my Thamma is immortal and knew we all are waiting. With every call from my home I apprehended the news. Finally it came. And not to my astonishment, I broke down.
As a child, I had declared we are best of friends. But she didn't respond to her best friend in her last days. May be I could not prove myself as a good friend. I was not there in her hard times when she underwent a major surgery at 80, I could not be there when she had a cerebral and her left side was paralyzed. Its not that I had no complaints against her but now, when she is around there is an emptiness that has shrouded me completely, there is a void almost impregnable. No one is going to stand at the main gate anymore when we will come to home or leave, no one would bite the little finger of my left hand, no one will ask "do you have 'nirmali'"?No one can substitute that. My little one will never know what he missed.
