Lakshmi Rameshwar Rao, Hyderabad
Bhavani Bai (1884-1968), named Girija by her husband’s family after marriage, was a pious and god fearing woman. A poor Saraswat Brahmin married to a school teacher, she had spent all her life observing the rules of her caste strictly and performing the rituals with great belief.
I am told that she would do her morning cooking wearing the we sari from her bath. I never worked out the routine. She must have also done her puja in her wet sari. If she had, how had she kept away the chill when she went to live with her son in bitterly cold Muzzapharnagar?
Survive she did, living to the ripe old age of 84 and those years she lived fully. As her children were growing up and being educated, she taught herself to read Devnagri and Kannada and after they left home she spent the time that was available reading – originals and translations in both Marathi and Kannada – languages she had learned by reading and which she used only during her short visits to Bombay where a daughter lived or in correspondence.
She read the works of saints Tukaram, Namdev, et al and even the Bengali Renaissance writers. Her slow and laborious reading introduced her to their lives and teachings. Story telling was her forte and we were regaled with stories and with vivid accounts of adventure and bloodshed from the epics.
Bhavani Bai moved among the homes of her five children – three sons and two daughters, each of whom lived in a different city in India. But the time came when she was too old to travel. She had to decide to live in one place with one of her children and she accepted to do so without difficulty.
We were young then and not part of the major decision making processes concerning lives other than our own so when Bhavani Bai accepted to live with her youngest daughter, who was married to a wealthy non-Brahmin in out city, we were delighted.
Bhavani Bai’s fund of stories was unending and the range was wide –extending from stories from Bhagavatam and other Puranas to the parables from the Gospels. These she had picked up avidly from the missionaries along with the intricacies of making lace, reading the thermometer and first aid.
We were only dimly aware of the opposition her daughter’s marriage had met with because the man was a non-Brahmin. What we knew was that delicious meat dishes were served every day in the house and, although the family ate together, no objections were raised in matters concerning what was eaten – everyone except Bhavani Bai whose food was cooked and served separately.
For the kitchen staff, it was a matter of job and pride to cook food specially for her and serve it to her in separate dishes kept for the purpose.
She gave us fruit and crystal sugar to eat and it smelt distinctly different – of camphor, agargatti and musk.
Bhavani Bai lived in this household until the end of her life regaling us with stories form mythology. We watched her do her puja every day. She washed her puja bowls and collected water from the garden tap.
She picked jasmine form the creeper she had planted and this she would always do herself. As she grew older, she found walking more and more difficult but she would hobble out into the garden.
One day her daughter suddenly came upon Sayyed, the Muslim driver, squatting at the tap, the puja bowls arrayed around him, scrubbing each in turn. She was surprised for she knew how anguished her mother would be as, in her perception, the communities did not share the religious rituals.
They were strictly segregated. Sayyed look up and smiled. “Bade Ammake puja ke bartan dho raha hoon, amma (I am washing Bade Amma’s puja vessels), he explained.
Unsure what comment to make, amma beat a hasty retreat into the house. Shortly afterwards she watched her mother accept the shining copper and silver water-filled vessels from Sayyed.
The she saw him unwrap jasmine from his handkerchief and lay them before the small idol of Krishna on the puja table as Bhavani bai smiled gently at him.
When Sayyed left, Bhavani Bai’s daughter teased her. “You have now completely lost your caste” she said, Bhavani Bai was thoughtful. Her caste was important to her. “Yes”, she replied, “I know, but he offered and brought them with so much live. Is this not what the saints and poets taught?”
Bhavani Bai died in the house of her lower caste son-in-law who she often said was like a son before the causes of anti communal politics had found a place in Indian discourse.
(The writer has a Masters in Adult Education from Jamia Milia Islamia. She has many years teaching experience at the school level as also ten years of experience in book publishing and some published writing in newspapers and more students’ books. Lakshmi has retired and lives in Hyderabad.)
