I remember when I was around ten, I was sitting at the dining table where Dadoo too was sitting reading something. I was trying to talk to him but he was too engrossed reading, that’s when Mamma came from the kitchen with two cups of tea – one for herself and one for Dadoo. I do not remember why the other chairs were occupied, at least one of the chairs had Dadoo’s stuff on it. Then Dadoo said firmly, ‘Rewa, get up let your Mamma sit.’ I was about to say something when he said, ‘And remember this, whenever an elder comes, you must get up and offer your seat.’
Daddoo respected my mother. She did not lead the normal life of drudgery that an average Indian woman led. Though I know that Indian women in general are not ill-treated and their view points are taken and they are the backbone of the family but somehow, somewhere they lack that respect – respect of opinion may be, respect of just sitting and listening to them, respecting their views on how to handle family affairs. I had never heard my mother whining about lack of money or no money. The reason was very simple, Dadoo handed over his salary to Mamma to take care of the house and all the financial complications that went with it. He would introduce Mamma to all his friends and us children by names. In the beginning it was such a proud feeling, a feeling of awe, a seven-year-old or a ten-year-old being introduced to wise, elderly men of thirty! Later sometimes, it was irritating too. If a guest had come it was mandatory to come and greet him, make some polite talk, serve water and other refreshments like tea, soft drinks, snacks. Like all other chores this too was done alternatively, one day Vikram and the next day me.
Watching our parents talk to their parents, how they took care of them, with joy, reverence and indulgence indirectly taught us many things. Everything special to eat that came into the house was first served to the eldest. In case there was not enough snacks or mithai for everyone, the youngest one would not get it, it was a norm, no one argued about it.
Yes, one thing that I feel and regret is that we siblings were never taught hygiene. The reason probably was that our parents themselves were not so hygienically sound. They were not unclean or something, but we were never taught things like washing your hands regularly, having an exclusive soap and towel, brushing your teeth before sleeping, combing your hair when you got up in the morning; we never learnt it till very late. Dadoo was a farmer’s son, a man who loved earth, a man who thought these trivial things were not important for living and Mamma, though she was from that kind of a family, somehow did not teach us all this.
I remember him crying, sobbing like a child when I was young; I must be around twelve then, and Mamma hugging and comforting him. Some personal disaster had struck back home in India. I did not know what, but it was very traumatic for me to see him in such a condition. Dadoo and Mamma were hiding something from us, which had never happened before and was new to us. The next day he flew to India alone. Mamma kept crying and would not say anything. When Dadoo came back he was angry at Mala didi and told Mamma never to mention her name in the house. Mamma was clutching on to a packet, which she finally placed on top of the kitchen cupboard. When they had gone to the market, Vikram and I climbed up on the stool and with trembling fingers opened that packet, because we knew that all the misery and anger of our parents was related to it somehow.
It was an exceptional thing for us to do, trembling with fear and guilt. There were black and white photographs inside the envelope. It took some time for me to recognize Mala didi, and there was a man with her and it took some more time to realize that she looked different. She looked married.
We danced around with the photos with joy and when we heard the car outside we hurriedly put them in the packet.
As we chanted happily about Mala didi being married, Mamma snatched the packet from our hands and severely reprimanded us. There was cold fear in her voice, which of course stumped us. That was the only time that I remember her in fear of Dadoo. Later after weeks, Dadoo called us in the drawing room. He said that our elder sister had done a wrong thing, she had run away from the house and got married. Mamma was sobbing behind him, as Dadoo talked firmly. He said we now have nothing to do with her, she is no longer their daughter or our sister. I asked, ‘Why did she do this?’ He kept quiet and Mamma sobbed harder and then he said very softly, ‘May be I am to be blamed, somewhere.’
The next couple of months were heavy and laden with grief and many a time we would come across our parents huddled together whispering, talking and then becoming quiet when we came near. It was a difficult time because till then there had been no secrets from us and we had never seen them in grief.
This incident got so ingrained in my mind that I vowed when I grew up I would never have a boyfriend, mine would be an arranged marriage, as I would never bring this heartache to my parents.
Though in later years this vow became a problem for Dadoo. He just could not find the right match for me. I would tease him, and say, ‘This is your duty, now find me Mr Right and let us see how good he will be.’ For a couple of years, he showed me photographs of the grooms-to-be and we both would sit down and dissect the information minutely to the frustration and irritation of my mother. She would mutter, ‘Kya kar rahe ho, yeh theek tarika nahin hai, isko kyon saath bithate ho [what are you doing, this is not the right way, why do you make her sit with you]?’ And I would gear up like a lioness to snap, ‘Yeh meri zindgi hai [This is my life],’ and Dadoo too would be on my side and mumble, ‘Zamana badal gaya hai, Asha, isko nahin bataunga toh kisko bataunga [Asha, times have changed, who will I tell if not her]?’