Meenakshi Amma

Meenakshi Amma passed away. Curtains to 92 years of very ordinary existence. The world has not stood still. People did not mourn. She was no Indira Gandhi. On the day of Indira's death, we were around 15 kilometers away from home. We had to walk all the way back to reach home as there was a total shut down in the country. What had followed that death was the most harrowing incidents. People of a particular community had been hunted down. Burnt alive.  Garlanded with burning tyres. Stabbed and beaten to death. It is simply explained as the reverberation when a big tree falls. I only pray such trees would not fall once again in our country.

Meenakshi amma's departure only brought relief to the world around her. She had been bed- ridden for the past few months. Last time when I met her, she was out of her senses. There was no response from her to the repeated calls. Bed sours were visible from different parts of the frail body. For a moment, I wished she had been called back at the earliest. That is the sad part of this life. The mortal part undergoes continuous change. Like Yudhishtir told to the Yaksha, everyone knows one day he/she has to die, but still the run to achieve something in life continues. "Day after day countless creatures are going to the abode of Yama, yet those that remain behind believe themselves to be immortal. What can be more wonderful than this?" At the last leg of all these rush, this is how a human being becomes. Incapacitated and virtually turn out to be a burden to the near and dear ones. That is a stage in our life. Everyone around us impatiently waiting to see the last breath. This woman was very lucky. Her "uneducated" children never dumped her in an old age home or left her to the mercy of a home nurse. She would have enjoyed the care of the children and especially the daughter-in-law who lived with her.

She was the right hand of our beloved grandma. Meenakshi Amma claims that she entered our home when I was born. Since then, for around 40 years, she served all of us. She stayed in our house though her house was just a few meters away. Hers was a very poor family. Her husband passed away long time back leaving behind two children to be taken care by this poor woman. This might have forced her to go to work. The elder boy at a young age went to Vizag to assist my papa and the younger one stayed back as mamma's boy. Both of them did not do any formal education, but Meenakshiyamma could read newspapers.

The most vivid thing in my memory about this woman is her preparation of fish curry. She had a stoop. She could bend fully down while still on her feet. She cleaned fish in that posture, standing in the open space just north side of the kitchen accompanied by a number of crows and a dog and a cat. The unwanted parts of the fish were thrown to these creatures. While throwing them, she used to say, she would feed only the dogs, because they are very loyal. When we reach heaven, dog will talk in favour of us, while the cat, even if we feed them, would talk only bad about us. For her, the crows were the souls of the ones who departed us. I stood by her all through the process of cleaning to pour water to the earthen pot. Several times, I lifted water from the well as she cleaned the fish thoroughly. By the time she finished it the fish would look silver. The dogs' eyes look shinier and the happy crows fly away with a sumptuous dinner...

She then takes a coconut, removes the husk using the tool, breaks and grates. The grated coconut is then places on the grinding stone along with all ingredients and she starts crushing the mix. It is a long process. In every one's house, by the side of the kitchen, there located a grinding stone. Our beloved ladies worked on it to churn out delicious food to us. The efforts went into each item deserves a salute. The finely crushed paste along with the pieces of fish is then put on the stove in an earthen vassel. The stove is powered by wooden logs. Our kitchens were once a place were smoke ruled the roost. Our moms and grandmas spent a major part of their life in the middle of smoke. The rest of their life could be spent to rear her children. The fish curry is the best dish Meenakshiyamma made under the supervision of grandma. It ought to be the testiest, because it is made with love, affection and commitment. 

We devoured. On holidays it was with the lunch and on weekdays, we had it with the dinner. We had a bench and a desk to eat food. Grandma served food and we three brothers sat together to eat the dinner. We talked a lot while enjoying the fish curry. Our eldest brother used to perform a "Ottanthullal" on the silly things happening in our village Olavaipe. It was all about the first bus service started from Olavaipe. People  have celebrated the first step towards development. Sadly, our village has not put another step forward yet. Still one bus comes and goes as a routine. Ottanthullal and the spicy fish curry made an exhilarating combo for entertainment. 

The verses of Ottanthullal were impromptu but sounded very funny. My elder brother acted as the second man, like in the traditional enactment of the great art, and repeated the verses sung by the main performer. That peppered up the fragrance of the spicy fish curry. At the end of the dinner we could have become just like a snake that gulped a prey. At the end of the dinner, the lukewarm jeera water. As the warm water goes down the neck, the happiness touches the crescendo. Grandma and Meenakshiyamma sat on the floor and took food after we vacated the scene. Then, Mennakshiyamma takes all the utensils and plates to the well. She cleans them using ash. I always walked down up to the well to lift water. By the time the entire process was completed, it could be 10 in the night. She slept in the kitchen itself in a mat only to be woken up by grandma by 4 in the morning. Grandma always had anxiety. She wanted the breakfast and the lunch to be ready by the time we were ready to go to school. 

Meenakshiyamma lived a very simple life till the end. In fact she was forced to do that since there was no big income to her family. By the time the younger son married, she shifted her stay to the little house our papa constructed for her in her land. Still she visited our house everyday and joined in all activities in the kitchen. Her connection with our family was like an umbilical chord.

Meenakshiyamma, in my view, is another example for living happily even though not being rich. She used to handover a small part of money to my mom from the paltry amount of the old age pension she received from the government. That is what richness means - the willingness to share. She could see her hut like house turn into a good looking  and more comfortable dwelling place in the sun-set period. She died in the revamped house, perhaps with a sense of satisfaction. Her soul would have gone to the heavens, no doubt. 

Everyone came to bid adieu to the mortal remains looked very pleasant. In villages this is still happening- cutting across caste,creed and economic divides, all assemble on such occasions. Whoever came there gave their last respect to the body and then hung around outside the house. In small groups they were discussing various subjects, from politics to children's education to their jobs while impatiently waiting for the cremation to start. No point of time the name of the departed soul came in the discussions. Once the smoke started emanating from the pyre, one after the other everyone dispersed. Perhaps, that also could be the society's dynamism. Agony or ecstasy, to share or not, villagers are readily available on the spot. To that extent, our villages are blessed...