Aunts
(Written in August of this year)
I spoke to my four aunts today. It was New Year and I called them all, one after another, to hear their voices and wish them well.
Three of my aunts still live in my hometown. One is my dad’s younger brother’s wife. She is my kaki. One is my mom’s younger brother’s wife. She is my mami. The third is my dad’s older cousin brother’s wife. She is my kaki too. These three ladies have loved me, opened their homes and arms to me, and given me roots to return to.
My kaki brought me up. My mom was a busy college professor so it was kaki who laid me down for an afternoon nap and fed me fresh hot roti, with ghee and jaggery. She sat patiently beside me when I was unwell, singing songs and reciting stories. Her parents were my other grandparents, we visited them so often. She always had a flair for art and craft. She dressed me in the most elaborate fancy dress costumes ever – once as my great grandmother, with powder in my hair and a lacy scarf on my head, another time as the Queen of Sheba, in red harem pants and a veil on my head. I hated this and often threw tantrums just before the competition. That was possibly the only time she would eye me sternly, and send me off to invariably win the prize, so beautiful were the costumes she created. Later, when we moved away from my hometown, it was to her beautiful white house that we returned every summer for the holidays. She taught me the basics of cooking – to roll out round chapatis – but also showed me the art of pickling fish roe and making elaborate dar ni pori (sweet lentil pie). She is an expert in making the elaborate, large designs in chalk powder with which we decorate our doors on festival days. She has taken this hobby to a fine art. The flat area in front of her house was especially laid with a light grey stone so that her beautiful designs, glowing in white with little highlights of colour, would stand out most distinctively. On my navjote morning, she covered every inch of that space, large enough for two cars to park side by side, with chalk designs. I remember her sitting on a low stool, the chalk boxes on a thali next to her, each with a design of a fish or flowers or hearts cut out in the base of the metal dish. Through the tiny holes that formed the pattern, the chalk powder would fall when the box was tapped down smartly. If done right, a beautiful clear pattern would be left on the floor. She would then take a tiny pinch of red or green or whichever colour was appropriate and dribble it into the centre of a flower or the eye of a fish. Then she would press down with her forefinger to flatten the tiny heap of coloured powder into a perfect flat circle.
My kaki’s life hasn’t been easy. She is a complex woman, with contradictions and conflicts running through her personality. But she is also an amazing woman, with a backbone of steel under that flamboyant outer shell. It’s hard to express how much my kaki has taught me through my life – resilience, grit, hard work, open hearted love, elegance, style. But this morning, as I created my own chalk design outside my front door, it came to me that the most precious thing she taught me was continuity – of family history, food and rituals, of a way of life she held dear. And so, I try, for her sake, to continue these little traditions that connect me to my family, my past.
My mami was a banker by profession. She was also a devoted daughter in law to my cantankerous grandmother and a wonderful mother and wife. As a child, she was the loving hug I could fold into. Reserved, not much of a talker, spiritual in the best way, in action but never in words. In her simple home, lovingly built from life savings, I was free to just be. I could be left alone, or be riotous with my cousins, fly kites and burst crackers, eat simple vegetarian food, and just chill. Her homemade snacks, the gujarati classics of matthiya and choorma ladoos, coconut barfi and peanut chikki were legendary. A thali of something sweet and freshly made always waited on the kitchen table.
My mami has never made any demands of me. She is a rock who is always there, very quiet, not one to draw attention to herself in any way. In the last year, in the face of terrible tragedy, she has shown me her strength and her quiet fortitude. She will never be uncomfortably emotional or vocal about her grief. Her attention is always directed outwards, to comforting and supporting everyone around her. She takes each day head on and lives it the best she can, guided by her spiritual self.
My beloved cousin kaki. She means the world to me. The earliest memories of her in my life are a gift of a giant teddy bear, carried for me all the way from the USA and lovingly cooked meals, eaten at her kitchen table. Aam ras puri, parathas, banana muffins whipped up at the merest request. She is a very respected academician, a warm and loving human being, an outspoken supporter of human rights and education and liberal values. Much of my value system comes from her, though she may not realise it. Her beautiful home, filled with books and music, is my refuge and comfort during difficult times. She is my go to person when I’m angry or upset, I can talk to her about almost anything and I know that far from being shocked or angry, she will come back to me with a thoughtful, deliberate, sensitive yet common sense solution. My kaki’s laugh fills a room with sunshine. Her irreverent humour, her deep concern for society and the environment, her sheer joie de vivre, there are hundreds of her students who treasure her for these same qualities. I am so privileged that along with all this, she is also my eternal source of the warmest hugs.
My fourth aunt lives right here in my city. She is my dad’s second cousin but she has always been fui to me. A tall woman, splendidly erect of spine and morals, a pioneer in early and special needs education, she is the backbone of her large family. Unwavering in her religious faith, yet tempered by a refined sense of justice and scientific thought, her many nieces and nephews see her as a lodestar, as do I. When faced with a dilemma, we often ask ourselves what she would do. My fui has always been the anti aunt. As young kids, she taught us all chess moves and home made board games, and whipped us at most even after we grew up. We could retreat to her little home when getting away from parents was the need of the hour. A teetotaller and completely uninterested in food herself, she would still whip up amazing comfort food for us. Especially memorable were her fried Bombay duck, and her lessons in cooking these to perfection were peppered with much hilarity. She counselled and comforted us in her caustic, wry way. She could be mildly sarcastic when faced with silliness, in an absent minded way, so that no offense was ever taken but the message received loud and clear. Though much of that sharp wit and acerbic advice is a thing of the past, she continues to live her life as ever, with great dignity and independence.
My four aunts. Four women, so different from each other, each with so much to give and teach. And they have given generously of their love, wisdom, advice. Long before there were role models and icons, there were my aunts.
They have inspired me, encouraged me, dissuaded me sometimes and often given me a dressing down. Always with love, humour and intelligence shining through.
A better support system than this is hard to imagine. They are my own league of superheroes.