Monogram
My grand aunt loved my dad very much. She was his mami (maternal uncle’s wife). They had no children of their own and brought up my dad as their son. Though she was strict and assertive, she was also great fun, a storehouse of jokes, family history and endless stories. I remember her vast, pillowy lap as being my refuge when times got hard for a three year old.
But it was my dad that Mamiji loved especially. She never ran short of ways to indulge him. She cooked all the foods he enjoyed, took his side in any argument, and generally brought him up to believe that he was the centre of her existence. Which he was.
She was my mom’s mother-in- law as much as my grandmother. The two old ladies delighted in winding up my mom, a career woman with very little patience for homemakers and a low opinion of their many talents. All they needed to do was to overtly spoil my dad and make much of him. This would get my mom going every time, because she felt that she had first and last claim on her man. Sharing him with any other woman, be it his own mother or aunt, was done through gritted teeth and much heart burn. Dad, who loved my mom dearly, had a streak of devilry that wasn’t above flaunting his special relationship with his aunt, just to get a rise out of Mom. And that was really the easiest thing in the world to do – Mom would steam and smoulder, and accuse Dad of being a spoilt Mama’s boy. But this was usually short-lived, and they would soon kiss and make up.
Of all the indulgences that Mamiji lavished on Dad, one came home to roost today. I know she was chuckling over my shoulder, enjoying the irony of my mother’s daughter doing what my mother had refused to do all her life. It involves a little red embroidered letter.
My dad, a good Parsi man, always wears a sadra under his shirt. This thin muslin vest is worn by all religious minded Zorastrians. In the vee of the neck is sewn a little pocket, into which all of your life’s good and bad deeds are stored. At the final reckoning, these are weighed and measured to determine your fate.
Living in a joint family, the similar looking sadras were distinguished from one owner’s to another’s by the sewing of a little mark on the left lower border. This could be a little asterisk or a cross. My grandmom and grandaunt embroidered these in red thread. And so each member of the family had his or her own special mark on their pile of sadras.
My dad was accorded a greater honour by my grandaunt. His pile of sadras were embroidered with a tiny stylised N, each diligently embroidered. His handkerchiefs were similarly marked. Dad took this for granted. Wasn’t that the least all women could do for their menfolk? His rhetorical question was quickly answered when he married Mom. No, all women did not wait on their men hand and foot. Some women had careers, and a life outside the home.
Mom had no intention of playing the demure hausfrau, though the mothers-in-law must have tried to make her their helper in this task. Tried and failed. Mom found it easier to dispense with the sadras altogether than to be bothered with marking them. That might have been an unconscious reason why she said nothing when we three siblings put away our sadras the day after our Navjote ceremony and only wore it on on a need to know basis for the rest of our lives. As in, we wore one if we were going into an agiary (a very rare occurrence in itself), and the dasturji needed to know. We four heathens went our merry way without the protection of the sacred vest. Not so my dad, who wears a sadra even today, in his ninetieth year.
While we lived together in a big, not always happy joint family, the crisp sadras and handkerchiefs, marked N, appeared magically in his large rosewood wardrobe, as if the elves had been working through the night with needle and thread. But then we moved away from our hometown. Still, the supply of sadras and handkerchiefs continued unabated. The old ladies would produce piles of the snow white vests when they came to stay with us for their annual holiday. It was all very convenient. Mom and the old ladies butted heads over other inconsequential matters but the three of them made sure that Dad’s life was peaceful and unmarred by strife.
One by one, the old ladies died. My grand aunt died after a stay in the hospital to have a pacemaker installed. She wrote to my brother, telling him about the long hospital corridors down which they would have waltzed if he’d visited her. She died before he did, and possibly waltzed him into eternity when his atoms arrived to meet hers. My grandmother, who lost her soul mate when Mamiji died, outlived her and my brother both by a few years.
Then they were all gone, and with them, a part of our family history died too. Not to mention that seemingly endless supply of sadras and handkerchiefs marked N.
My mom would mark the sadras with a careless marker pen and began to buy Dad ready-made monogrammed handkerchiefs. She mended his clothes but drew the line at embroidering that little N. All was well until she lost her eyesight. Missing buttons, little tears in clothes, and the red N – all of these became my retired dad’s responsibility along with caring for Mom and the house. The N was the only thing to go, after a few attempts to embroider them himself. There really wasn’t a need to do so anyway – he was the only one who wore sadras in the house.
Life and circumstances make heroes out of ordinary men. My dad stepped up and into the role of nanny, nurse, cook and companion to my mother without any protest. He looked after her so well and lovingly for the last fifteen years of her life that all his past indulgences had to be forgiven.
Mom died a few years ago. I know Dad misses her terribly. But we rarely speak of her. Silences are the standard operating procedure in our family. But he’s been amazing even in the aftermath of his great loss. He lives independently, with a house helper. Though who looks after whom is debatable. Dad is meticulous about looking after himself. His clothes and appearance are always smart. He shops and cooks healthy food for himself. He is careful about his medication and he visits the bank every month. He has a wide circle of friends, old and young. He is living a full life, as best as he can.
He comes to spend a month or so with us when his helper goes home on his annual vacation. Each time he visits Bombay, he stocks up on sadras. The problem is his sadras are identical to my husband’s and sorting these is a daily identification puzzle. He requests me every time to please mark his sadras with that red N. Like Mom, I use a shortcut, marking his sadras with a marker pen that often smudges or fades. But it gets the job done.
This year, my 89 year old father casually said to me: “I can’t mend my clothes anymore. I can sew on buttons but I can’t stitch small tears.” Now I’m supposed to be this expert cross stitcher, creating intricate projects, using thousands of stitches. But I rarely, if ever, mend tears in my own clothes. Buttons that come loose do get stitched back on, but that’s the extent of my sewing skills. I have to say that my old dad’s admission made me feel very small and clumsy.
So today when he bought his supply of sadras, I did something that surprised both him and me. I found my brightest red embroidery floss, and I stitched an N as neatly as I could on all the sadras. It didn’t have the artistic flourish that my grand aunt used to add but it seemed to bring back a small, long forgotten memory of my family history. It was also my way of thanking my dad for living such a beautiful life, though you’ll never hear me articulate that sentiment. As I admired that little red N, I think I heard my mom grit her teeth and I definitely heard Mamiji’s low, throaty chuckle.
Dad examined the N carefully. He seemed happy with my workmanship. Maybe tomorrow he’ll want his handkerchiefs monogrammed too.