For A Brighter World!

Ma’s death on the forenoon of August 11^th, 2006, was an eye-opener of some sort for me. A revelation, realization or reminder, call it what you will. A reminder of the grim realities regarding the great hold that the mighty Yamraj or the Lord of Death has over all living beings. Ma’s demise also taught me a painful lesson and helped me reevaluate one of my beliefs. The belief I held that people who lead an uncomplicated, unblemished life, people who are kind and compassionate, the sacrificing and forgiving type, are never subjected to a tormenting, traumatic end, in some ways they are assured of a place in heaven without fail.

Ma was, to a great extent, responsible for instilling this belief in me, when, towards the fag end of her life, she used to talk about her own mother, my grandma’s death:

One lazy, hot afternoon at my maternal grandfather’s residence behind Ashutosh College in Bhawanipur, somewhere in south Kolkata (?), on entering into my grandma’s room late chhotomama ( my youngest maternal uncle), found her reclining in her bed. In order not to disturb her as she had been exhausted owing to a hard day’s work  (she led and active life till her last day) and thinking that she was asleep, chhotomama was about to leave the room stealthily, when grandma requested him to fetch a glass of water. She drank from the glass thirstily and handed it back to my uncle. As uncle turned back after inquiring if she was feeling all right or not, there was a pull at his dhoti (cotton cloth). Uncle turned his head  to find out if she needed anything more. But he was in for a surprise and shock, when he could find his mother’s head slowly drooping sideways on her shoulder.

And that was that!  Nothing difficult or uncomplicated about it. What a marvelous way to take one’s final leave of the world! That was Death at his glorious best. No diseases, no visible pains or troubling others. In today’s trouble-torn world, a death like my grandma’s is hard to envisage, a rare occurrence, a dream!

Ma had the gift of the garb and her powerful account of grandma’s death, had a telling impact on my mind and made me believe from early on that good people go out gloriously, while the bad and wicked, suffer in their final hours like hell. Their ends are a sad and glowing example of living death, not only for themselves but for others as well.

Why then Ma, whom till date I consider the epitome of Love, Kindness, Sacrifice and Forgiveness, met with a tragic end? Why did she have to be in a coma in the first place? I am not sure if she was in pain because when someone is in a coma, there is no knowing whether s/he can feel any physical pain or not. But at the same time I have heard it from a few that being in a coma, in that state itself, is a painful process. Considering the opinion of the minority to be correct, I simply cannot help myself wondering why my Ma, of all people, was made to suffer for nearly two weeks.

I have spent a lot of time with Ma on various occasions and at various places. And I can honestly say, not because she was my mother, that Ma was a gem of a human being. She never tried to cheat anyone, was honest to a T, and never was greedy for all those materialistic possessions and all. A pious lady to the core, Ma had a steadfast faith in the ways of the one crore plus gods and goddesses of Hinduism and therefore, tried living a simple, trouble-free life.

Since the time of her death or even before that, I have had the misfortune of witnessing some people die in front of my own eyes. I have at the same time heard of people the world over dying of hunger, starvation and diseases. I have also heard of people dying a terrible death out on the streets, without the on-lookers doing so much as bothering in the least about their plight! Nothing can be more inhumane than that. Looking from the point of view of the one, who is lying helplessly somewhere on the way, painfully coming to terms with the reality that her/ his final moment has arrived, being face to face with Yomraj, the Lord of Death -  nothing can be more tormenting than the feeling that s/he will never get to see the loved ones anymore coupled with the irresistible craving for reliving a better life, given a second chance, even if it is for a short time.

For a life better than the one we live, or in other words, for an exemplary life, we need to be mindful of the Values of Love for all, Compassion, Sacrifice and above all Forgiveness. Our life  also has to be dedicated to the well being and betterment of all sentient beings, one heck of a noble cause for the attainment of nirvana.

I am no philosopher, nor do I have any intentions of winning accolades or acclaim by delving on a serious topic. All I am trying to express here through this blog, dear Reader, is to caution you about the purpose and meaning of the present life. If you do not believe in the importance of leading an unblemished life, if you have no regrets about failing to discharge your filial duties, if you are unduly jealous of the successes of your siblings, relatives, friends or acquaintances, adding on to their woes and worries always, knowingly or unknowingly – you are distancing yourself not only from the attainment of nirvana, but also closing the door on being born as a human being in your next, due to all those sinful acts in your present life.

I am sorry for sounding, in spite of myself, a bit philosophical. But I am being absolutely honest when I say that these are the lessons I have derived from my Ma’s life and the conclusions drawn from the tragic ends of some others. And you will have to forgive me, Reader, if I could not help sharing them with you for the sole intention of a better and brighter world.

'Nothing Gold Can Stay".

I do not want to conclude the blogs on Life’s Best Lessons concerning my late Ma, Mrs. Bina Devi Bhattacharyya. I want the memories of my mother to be kept tucked in the recess of my heart forever and ever and ever. I want to cling on to those memories for remembering my roots, for perpetually bettering myself in the attempt of being a good human being, for helping those who hold the promise of growing as one. And yes, when the time comes for me to take leave of this wonderful world, I want Ma to come down from wherever she happens to be at that time to hold my hand to lead me through to afterlife.

I have already tried to write about the lessons I learnt from my mother. I started with the unshakable faith, her indomitable spirit, love for all, especially her children and grandchildren, honesty and sacrificing mentality and concluded the last blog by writing about what in my opinion, defines my Ma best, her divine sense of forgiveness.

Ma, in life, was my first and best teacher. Surprisingly, her death was a lesson in itself as well.  I have already written about the time in late July in 2006, when I received an urgent call from Jaya, my wife, informing about Ma’s deteriorating condition and subsequent hospitalization. The same day, mainly thanks to the consent of Mr. Y.B.Ghalley, the Principal of my school at that time, I hurried home in a resless frenzy.

I reached Zero Point at around 5 or 5.30 in the evening. I did not have to wait for long at the turning, as I hitch-hiked the first vehicle that came along. While I was trying to stretch my limbs in the back seat of the car, a maddening fragrance of an assortment of flowers lingered in the air. I was dropped off near the BoD at Gedu as the car was not going any further. I spent the next half hour or so desperately trying and praying for a vehicle going down to the border town of Phuentsholing. By 8-8.30, having given up any hope of getting a lift down, I helplessly knocked on the door of my friend Mr. Thukten, the BoD Manager. He was pleasantly surprised to find me at that odd hour, but we spent the rest of the time chatting, watching TV over a cup of steaming coffee and later on driving around the sleepy Gedu town. He must have done all that in order to distract my mind from the thought of my Ma. I must have retired to bed quite late in the night. A nightmarish dream was trying to drive away the sleep from my weary eyes, when I found myself being vehemently shaken by Thukten. A quick look at the watch told me that it was 6 in the morning. He informed me that a truck was going down to Phuentsholing and whether I would like to go by the truck. All my sleepiness was gone instantanously as I told him I would. The wife of my ever smiling and helpful friend made some quick breakfast and off to Phuentsholing I was in a truck, in a flash.

I reached Kolkata the day after (they say, Kolkata is quite near to Chhukha though). My wife, tension writ large on her face, was waiting anxiously for me. After gobbling down some mouthfuls, we left for the hospital. Ma was in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) of what is undoubtedly the most expensive hospital in Kolkata now. In a coma. Due to the initiative and some kind of street- smartness of the part of my youngest sister, Mrs Tapasi Ghosh, from among all the waiting visitors, I was let in the room. I have already blogged about that experience under the title; I love You in the ICU and as a result, do not want to relive the same experience right now.

Strange as it might sound, a couple of days after my arrival in Kolkata, Ma miraculously recovered from her deathbed, to the utter surprise and disbelief of all and sundry, and was therefore, shifted to a general bed on the second floor. Surrounded by a host of her close relatives, the fighter in Ma could also sit up in the bed for some time. I even remember joking with her if she could recognise me or not. She did! But soon afterwards she had what the doctors told us afterward, another seizure and had to be shifted back to the ICU once again. I had no idea at that time that I had already talked with her for the last time.

I also remember Dr. Ajay Sarkar; expressing his desire to have Ma on the life-support system for one more try. While doing that he was looking at me intently, trying to find some encouragement or positive signs. I kept my head down all along. An enquiry earlier at the Reception had made it known to me that the bills for Ma’s treatment at the hospital till that day amounted to something like 1, 80, 000/-

Thanks to my elder brother and the other siblings, money was not going to be an issue. But the truth that I had very little to do with her treatment, at least financially, let me keep my otherwise blabbering mouth shut. Later on all I could do was to wait impatiently outside for the inevitable to happen.

At around 11-11.30 in the morning of 11^th August, the junior doctor called me to the consulting room and informed me that they were trying their best, but most of Ma’s organs were defunct as she had a multiple organ failure. He came back to the door again soon afterwards and asked me to be prepared mentally. He also advised us to offer her the last holy water as per the Hindu custom! The life of the lady I have always loved the most was slowly ebbing away. And there was nothing I could do. I have never been very religious. Nor have I ever bothered about mustering the slokas from The Gita or The Upanishads. I do not believe in race, caste or creed. How could I offer a spoonful of the holy water to someone, who, to my knowledge and belief, was the most pious lady I have ever seen in my life?  I found myself oscillating between the pricks of conscience and a strong sense of duty. At that moment, sitting on one of those chairs outside the ICU, I had an inexpressible urge to do something extraordinary for her, to let her know that I was not going to be a failure in life, that I would always try to do something to make her proud of me.

Good God has always the solutions or answers to the most difficult of problems. Precisely then one of my nephews turned up. He must have earned a lot of merits by being the first one to offer a spoonful of the holy water to his thakurma (grandma). Jaya and I followed next.  Then the wind, the air became still and silent. Ma was gone.

Later on draped in a white cloth, her still body was carried in a glass case, via Eastern Bypass, along Park Circus Maidan to our ancestral home at 41, Deblane, where she had entered as a newly-wed bride many many moons ago. Her immobile body covered with wreaths of flower garlands, was laid out in the courtyard for people to pay their last homage. Amidst all the heart-wrenching wailings and sorrow, the fragrance of the incense sticks permeated the sombre atmosphere. Overcome with a multitude of emotions, I stepped forward and held her feet for the last time, before her final journey. I begged her forgiveness, if I had hurt her feelings unknowingly ever and sent up a silent prayer:

If there is Life after death, I would like to be born as your son once again, Ma.

Forgiveness Divine.

I have never been much of a forgiver. The quality of forgiveness is alien to my nature. I remember what happened to my friendship with my best friend Aparesh. We were in class-V then. One day during the break, we started cracking jokes at each other’s expense, jovially at the start. Then one joke led to another and soon we were making fun of relatives and their physical attributes and so on, you know. To cut a long story short, the nasty jokes cost us our friendship. Though we studied in the same school till class-X, in the same section, we never talked to each other again! I do not think I have changed much since then. Even today, I try to keep a safe distance from the people I abhor for their dishonesty, hypocrisy and big mouths.

In spite of being familiar with the reality and relevance of the adage:’ To err is human, to forgive divine’, I simply find it difficult to forgive and forget. My Ma was quite an exception in this regard. She could even forgive the person who must have caused her the greatest hurt and heartache.

I will come back to that later. Now it is human nature to forgive one’s siblings, kith and kin, or even parents easily. A story that I have read, in this context, comes to mind. It is Parable – 49, taken from a Buddhist Book of Parables called Thus Have I Heard. It is a familiar story and goes like this:

Bimbisara, the King of Magadha, during the time of Buddha Sakyamuni, was ecstatic when his first wife conceived a child. When the state astrologer was consulted, he made a terrible prediction. The yet to be born son, would turn out to be the king’s sworn enemy (thus the son was named Ajastsatru, the unborn enemy) and cause the death of his own father, just like Oedipus did in Sophocles’ immortal Oedipus Rexona. On hearing this, the queen immediately wanted to get rid of the baby in her womb through miscarriage or something. The king, a new convert to Buddhism, put some sense into her and prevented her from the evil intentions. In due course of time, a son was born to them. Despite the predictions of the pundit, the king remained ever forgiving to his son till his last. Once when the princes was wailing piteously due to a boil on one of his fingers, the king, while the court was in session, placed the son in his lap and started licking the boil in his mouth. It burst inside soon, but the king swallowed the pus and all not to wake up the child fallen asleep after long. As the prince grew up, he stared coveting the royal throne and nurturing the wicked thought of usurping it one day. Caught in the act, he was presented before his father. King Bimbisara, however, not only forgave Ajatsatru, but also relinquished the throne in his favour. The ungrateful son showed his gratitude by imprisoning his father and subjecting him to a painful end. He ordered the barber to cut open his father’s soles and put salt and oil there!

I do not know if Bimbisara could forgive his ungrateful son like Jesus Christ did, when he was being crucified by his enemies. The fact of the matter is, history is replete with the stories of such forgiving acts of some truly great human beings.

My mother was an ordinary moral, but forgiveness was ingrained in her nature. Instead of making a hue and cry about people’s mistakes, she thought it best to do it in their presence. Some people misunderstood her, not so surprisingly either! But she knew it best not to keep grudges. Be it someone close to her or the washer-woman, for the matter. She had a natural tendency to love them all. It was characteristically easy for her to forgive and forget.

By mid-eighties, she became the senior most person at 41 Deblane. Time and again her own offspring, instigated by others, failed to read her good intentions and criticized her for her lack of personality. She bore it all with utmost patience. Her basic goodness, self-control and a strong sense of forgiveness, always made her see the brighter side of Life. During the entire 44 years that I have had the good fortune of spending in her company, never did I see her quarreling with someone or losing control over herself!

When I find myself involved in an argument with my wife, most often over silly or trivial matters, I think of my Ma. Had she really wanted it, she could have easily added insult to my father’s injury. The whole family was in her support. Most of today’s so called educated ladies in her shoes, would start planning revenge in the principle of ‘tit for tat’. Not my Ma. She was far too wise to be unforgiving and revengeful. She believed in being a home-maker rather than a home-breaker. The whole concept of forgiveness was so much a part of her persona, that it was tantamount to some kind of pure love for all and the supreme bliss of Life and living.

On a headstrong day, as I was sitting near her sprawled figure on her bed, venting my anger on someone, badmouthing him for what I could or should have done, Ma slowly raised her weary head and in her characteristic style had an electric shock sent down my spine by sadly remarking:

“Toder ke ki aai janya manush korlam?’ For the sake of humanity, is this the reason why I brought you all up?

On hindsight, I realize now that I really never tried to learn anything from my Ma’s life. That I have a long way to go. I have to learn to forgive others. Not some kind of  surface level forgiveness, but from deep down, even at the cost of my own happiness. It may not be too late yet. The art of forgiveness is divinely difficult but not impossible to muster. Luckily, I have my Ma’s personal example in front.

SOME QUALITIES DEFINING MA.

I am a bit confused right now not knowing what title to use how for this blog. Should I call it The Reasons Why I Like My Mother (sounds odd), or What Makes Ma So Special (unsatisfactory), or Some Qualities That Define Ma? After a lot of thought I have settled for the last one.

One does not require any particular reason to love one’s mother. There are so many things about this God’s representative in human form on earth that endear her to one and all. And the mother, all over the world, has an inherent love and attachment for her child. It is natural therefore, for the child to reciprocate her love.

When it comes to my Ma, I am simply overawed like one is when one is confronted with the majestic and breathtaking view of the rising sun at Kanchenjunga, every time I am faced with the prospect of taking stock of her blessed presence in our lives. I find it quite difficult to fathom how she could mother a son like me. I have inherited none of her characteristic traits and must be even a disgrace to her.

My Ma, late Bina Devi Bhattacharyya, got married by the time she was only 13 as per the prevalent custom of the 19^th century India. Baba was 17 at that time pursuing his Master’s! Though towards the fag end of her life, Ma used to rue the fact that inspite of having hailed from a prosperous middle-class Bengali family (My maternal grandfather was a Sanskrit Scholar and Professor of a government college),  she initially found conditions in her in-laws’ place quite appalling. But she was never the complaining sort and must have adapted herself well.

She was, so I have been told, a bright student, though she could not study beyond class-6. I remember those days when sitting beside thakurma (grandmother) on her bed, one of her grandchildren would pester her, albeit teasingly, to talk about the time when Gandhi made the historic visit to her school at Chattyagram, Bangladesh. Undeterred, she would regale them with her highly enthralling narration of Gandhiji’s visit. She would seem to pick up the broken thread and continue from where she had left earlier: How impressed Gandhiji was when he made his way to the charka, the weaving machine, that Ma as a little girl had used to make the hand woven khadi cloth, something Gandhi was busy promoting and popularizing in those days of the British Raj.  She would always conclude with the regret that due to the sudden Partition of Bengal, when a large number of Hindu families had to be shifted and resettled in West Bengal, she had to leave the precious prize her school had offered her later on based on Gandhiji’s impression.

I am not sure if it was just one of those stories every grandma the world over shares with their grandchildren. But sitting close by during the entire narration, I believed each and every word while enjoying myself thoroughly.

She also possessed an enviable memory. Even a few weeks before her demise due to multiple-organ failure, I heard her reciting Mrs. J. C. Carney’s poem, word by word in her distinctive voice:

Little drops of water / Little grains of sand,

Make the mighty ocean/ and the beauteous land.

In comparison, I find myself very absent-minded and forgetful. After joining the RCSC (Royal Civil Service Commission of Bhutan), on a number of occasions, when I was back home during the winter holidays, I would start raising hell, not being able to trace one of my shirts or books or whatever. Standing in the middle of her room, concerned yet unrattled, she would direct me to look inside my suitcase under the bed. And on opening it, low and behold, I would find the missing thing there exactly the way I had it staked and left just before my departure for Bhutan, some5/6 months earlier!

Though Ma came from a prosperous Brahmin family, she had no qualms about adjusting to the struggling financial environment of her in-laws’ place. Nor was she a religious fanatic. Qualities that stood her in good stead later on when Baba, busy fighting a 17-year long lasing case against the Government of West Bengal, got confined to the easy-chair by a cruel stroke of fate due to a severe spread of gangrene on his left leg and the family was in all sorts of financial doldrums. On numerous occasions, while accompanying her to places of pilgrimage, scattered all over India, I learnt about religious tolerance by observing her from close quarters. At Kashi, in Banaras in the northern part of India, on our way back to Bharat Sevashram Sangha after a long day at the temple, I felt thirsty and wanted to have a cup of tea from the roadside stall. Many other pilgrims would not dare to drink from those grim-faced chaiwallas. But when I offered a cup to my Ma, she drank from the cup as if it contained nectar, least bothered about the sanctity of the place or the race of the person who made it!

I have also seen her eating the food cooked a day or two earlier, uncomplainingly. She would take the cockroach-eaten biscuits or other eatables unflinchingly in the belief that nothing would happen to her. And nothing ever did! And she lived till the ripe old age of 90! She was in the prime of her health and disease-free but for the last few weeks of her life! AMAZING! I have always been very choosy about the food I take. My relatives would remember the tantrums I used to throw every time there was a hair in my plate. I would push the plate away, untouched.  And strange as it may sound, I was twice down with a severe bout of jaundice by my early 20s!

Ma never would powder her face or apply make-ups (I think raising such a big family like ours kept her always occupied and she had no time whatsoever,  in between the little time she had for the preparation of the meals, to think of her personal health and looks). Yet she had the most glowing skin I have ever seen on anyone on two legs! Besides, all those items of make-up cost money. She, I reckon, knew it better to spend whatever little money she could save on her children’s upbringing rather than beautifying herself!

Till date she remains the most graceful lady in my eyes. It had more to do with her simple, humble persona than her physical appearance. She was honest to a T, kind and loving. Very passionate and protective of her children. And the sacrificing type all through. I have heard stories of her sacrificing mentality, when about to help herself to a late lunch; she would notice a distant relative turning up. She would, unfailingly and unhesitatingly, offer her share to the atithi debo bhava (Your guest is your God), without the notice or knowledge of the person concerned.

A great lady, I must say. In my next, I would like to blog about what, in my humble opinion, characterizes my Ma best,   something which is invariably lacking in almost all her children without exception, which is, her Quality of Forgiveness.

My Greatest Energizer.

Today is the 8^th of December. Ten more days to go before the start of our winter vacation. And I am heading down to my ancestral home at 41 Deblane in Kolkata.

The very mention of the address does something inexplicable to me. Makes me nostalgic. Lots of memories come flooding in. Like the time when Ma was alive. I always felt and still do the same that my Ma was a great lady. And beneath her external simplicity, she had some kind of charisma or a magnetic force that pulled me towards her whenever I had the chance.

I remember once I was granted just a couple of days CL (Casual Leave) for attending the Puja at my ancestral home in Kolkata. As I walked down to the FCB (Food Corporation of Bhutan) for the Phuentsholing-bound local bus in Tsimalakha, I already felt tired and tensed up. The bus came at around  a quarter to eight. I took my seat and prepared myself mentally for the long journey ahead. I could not book the train ticket earlier and going down to my hometown without a reserved ticket, in the general compartment was going to be one heck of a travel.

The bus, in the meantime, had turned left at Zero Point and the driver turned on a trendy modern English song. All on a sudden a song sung by the Jamaican Rockstar, Bob Marley, came to mind:

I am sad to say, I am on my way,

I won’t be back for many a day,

My heart is down, my head is turning around……..

The bus ride to Falakata from Jaigaon was anything but eventful. Anyway, finally I boarded the train from Falakata and as expected, I had to travel in the general compartment. But you know how it is when you are out in a hurry to reach some place? One thing or the other keeps on slowing and slackening down the progress and there is not much you can do about it except tentatively  chew your finger nail. By The time the train, trooped into Bandel station the next afternoon, Teesta-Torsa was already running late by some 10 hours behind the scheduled time!

Half an hour more passed by even there, refilling the tank or something. I had waited all along extremely patiently, like a goody-goody boy trying to focus on the lesson being taught in the class, with total concentration, despite the distractions all around. But I could not control myself any longer.

Ma Durga, or rather the image or the goddess, had already been brought to our ancestral home a couple of days before. The sense of de javu hung low in the air. People gorgeously dressed milling around, waiting to receive their near and dear ones at the station, or going to another place with an air of excitement and expectancy. But amidst all this cacophonous celebration, I was getting restless. Back home there was someone else, other than Ma Durga, waiting eagerly for my arrival. Not only my arrival, but for the arrival of every single member of late J.C.Bhattacharyya’s family.

Yet there was no sign of the train ever lumbering out of the station! I kept looking at my watch every now and then. Should I wait for some more time, or should I get off the goddamned train? Time was running out and half a day of my proposed stay in Kolkata, was wasted by futilely sitting in the train.

“Dada, trainta adao chharbeki?” Big bro, will this blasted train leave the station at all?

The man sitting near the window nonchalantly went on munching muri (puffed rice) from his cone-shaped paper packet, before coming out with something like:

“Ki kore janbo dada, ami ki bhagawan?’ How do you expect me to know? I am no god. That put paid to whatever inquisitiveness I had in my mind regarding the train’s departure! Another 7-8 minutes had gone by in the process. And then, then I knew what I had to do. I fled off the train and hurried to the overhead bridge. I have never been very good about locations, but if I took the risk at that time, it was mainly due to the fact that one of my sisters-in-law hailed from Bandel.

As I was hastily leaping up the stairs, two at a time, I dashed against a couple of commuters coming from the other end, offered my excuses before flinging myself into the packed compartment of a local train, which was waiting for the signal.

As luck would have it, the local train was also not much help due to the heavy rush of the season and what normally does not take more than an hour, must have taken more than double the time. Anyway, the train finally got to Sealdah station at around 7 in the evening!

Off to bust No. 45, the inevitable but not for long jam at the fly-over and I heaved a sigh of relief as the bus started plying towards Moulali, an intersection of some seven roads some 15 minutes distance from my house. If I had felt that all my worries were about to end soon, I should have known better. The bus got stuck in the jam for the second time. There seemed very little hope of the jam clearing in the imminent future.

I flew off the bus at the bleak prospect and started walking at a brisk pace through the shortcut, past P.C.Chandra Jewellers, turning right to move along DR.Suresh Sarkar Road, to the familiar surroundings of Deblane. For someone who had left Bhutan the previous day at 7.30 in the morning, and had been out on the roads for nearly 36 hours, without so much as a decent meal during the time, I was not doing so badly either.  

When I entered inside 41 Deblane some 25 minutes later at last, my eyes were searching frantically for my Ma, amidst all the usual pomp and gaiety. Old age had made it difficult for Ma to spend as much time around the thakurghar (altar room) as she normally used to during her heydays. She could not sit for long and was mostly confined to her bed in her room on the first floor.

Overlooking some familiar calls here and there, I rushed up to her room. While removing the shoes near the door, I peeped inside to make sure that the ol’-frail lady was there alright. She was, sitting in her characteristic posture with her legs dangling outside.

“Ma, eshe gechhi.”  I am home, Ma. And then the suppressed tremor in the voice. The voice that brightened my day and lit up my life:

“Ke, Swagto eli. Aai, aai. Eto deri korli keno?” Who is there, Swagato (my nick name)? Come in, have a seat. What kept you so long?

And like magic all my exhaustion, frustration and pain of the past two days were gone in that instant. The basic goodness of that frail, old lady was the greatest energizer, appetizer for my thirsty, hungry and passionate soul. And as I bent down to touch her feet, my mind played and replayed the self-modified version of Marley’s song:

My heart is down; my head is turning around,

Till I meet the ol’, frail lady in Calcutta town ….

The Lady With Indomitable Spirit.

I do not remember whether it was in Udayagiri or Dhabalgiri that I got so scared. There were some two hundred steps leading up to the temple of Maheswar, a benign form of Lord Shiva and we were just half way through. Susamadi had already given up on trying to get to the temple after climbing some twenty steps or so, though she was quite young compared to Ma. But not my Ma! And now she was panting, somewhere half way through and her heavy and laborious breathing was taking the wits out of me.

The three of us, Susamadi, Ma and I were on the last leg of our India trip, not the whole of India though, some parts of the north, south-west India; and on our way back to Kolkata via some holy and historic places in Orissa and Gaya in Bihar in the east, where Ma wanted to make the rice offerings to the memories of late Baba and my grandparents. We had been out of home for more than a month and the trip was beginning to wear all of us out. That day, earlier standing near the periphery  of the huge steps, I did not realize what a herculean task the climb was going to prove to be!

Ma was panting so hard that I felt that she might collapse any time soon and what was I going to do then? She was healthy and bulky, weighing over 80 kg and I was always the little one; frail, underweight, dependent and indecisive. What was I to do if she, due to the sheer fatigue of the climb, lost her balance and fell tumbling down the steps?

The accusing voice of my siblings (not that anyone of them ever scolded or rebuked me) started buzzing in my ears as panic began taking hold of me, up there in the middle of the painful climb to the temple of Maheswar. It must have happened a lot quicker than it is taking me to write now, in the blink of a minute or two at the most. I cannot recollect at this moment exactly if I had started praying (an atheist as I was then, I was no good at praying), when vision cleared somewhat in her eyes opening slowly and her breathing, though not exactly normal, was not as heavy and laborious as it was earlier. The next moment, she turned to me with that typical look of reassurance. Having pulled herself together and tugged at my hand, Ma in the meantime, was determined to climb the steps once more!

“Ma, let’s not go any further. Let’s turn back now, if you are not feeling up to it …” I could have spoken to a deadpan as well.

“Na, Baba, when He has brought us thus far, we have to keep moving. There’s no knowing if we’ll get another chance to answer His call again …..”

I was in a fix, not knowing whether to listen to Ma and keep moving up, or if I should call out for some help, ignoring her desire. She had climbed the next couple of steps by then and turning right. I thought it best to keep pace with her, clinging on to her hand to provide whatever support I could. Next we had to walk over a huge boulder that connected to the next step. And rather than me assuring her, she was the one who inspired hope in me at that moment.

“When Baba has brought us this far, He will definitely not disappoint us. He will not let us go back without the darshan ( a look at the altar).” Some experiences, beliefs and faith in life are better left unexplained!

All the way through, I was simply overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation, by her unshakable faith in god. But above all, by her unflinching, indomitable spirit and determination. As we were heaving and panting (by that time, the uphill climb was beginning to tell on me as well), a lady in her mid-thirties emerged from behind a rock a few steps up and was kindness personified in saying:

“Sitting up from here I’ve been observing you two.” Then turning to me she went on,” Having a tough time, Na?  Why don’t you let me help you …?”

Then without waiting for my answer, she stepped down to take my Ma by her right hand, while I held her by her left. And then up we went one step at a time. Then two, with some ninety-five more to go!

Finally, after what seemed like eternity to me, we made it to the temple. I have forgotten to tell you, Reader that my Ma was in her mid-seventies at that time. And there was another reason why we were making the trip all over India. As I was around 23 or 24 at that time and still jobless, my late Ma was sure that visit to some holy places in India would break the evil spell that I had wrought upon myself a few years back, when I broke a photo of Govindo Dev ( a form of Lord Krishna) into pieces after my favourite football club, Mohan Bagan had lost a closely contested match against its arch rival, East Bengal!

Later on in life, when faced with numerous critical situations, I have nearly given up or despaired, finding no way out, I have awakened to the understanding, albeit a little slowly, that I cannot change things and I have very little control over their outcomes. At some of these moments, the vision of my late Ma, wearing a red-bordered sari, with the vermilion mark glowing  on her forehead, beneath the parting of her hair in the middle; fatigued beyond imagination; panting yet steadily moving up and on in her conviction of the great God not deserting her when she needed Him the most, guiding her through the near hopeless climb to His abode, flashes through my mind to berate my shaky resolve and lack of purpose. I realize then that in order to achieve one’s targets, to enjoy life to the fullest, to spread love and happiness; one has to be steadfast in determination and spirit. What is more, one must not forget the omnipresence of The Almighty at all times. He is there all over, all around us, watching our every step and move, making sure we do not falter or go astray. And if we so much as try to plea for His mercy and helping hand, He will rush down in any form beknownest to us.