A Grandma’s Tale- An ode to Rukmini Paati
It is customary to be an Indian grandkid to listen to Grandma’s stories aka ‘Paati Kathaigal’. The sheer joy and curiosity that comes in as a 2–3 year old, listening to grandma’s tales are unmatched even by the most popular thrillers when you are exposed to them as an adult.
I had many such experiences with my own paatti (grandma) when she spent time with us in the then happening town of Ernakulam, now the sleeping giant of Kochi, still the queen of the Arabian Sea. A once in a year ritual, that was so endearing to me was welcoming my grandparents, no Thatha and Paati (aah. The feel factor!) as the train chugged into the 2nd platform of Ernakulam Town or the 3rd platform of Ernakulam Junction, every year. (Was it the 3rd? It could be the 5th too. But hey, let me take an average. It had 5 platforms then, so 3rd it is.) The site of the train resting on the platform and the eagerness at catching a glimpse of Thatha and Paati, was followed by a virtual match between me, Amma, Appa (and later my younger brother) on who gets the honours to spot them first in the crowd.
And it was yet another elation when they were found. An old and cheerful couple, Thatha with the radiance of the sun, decked in a neat white shirt and a silky white dhoti,his evergreen smile beaming and shining such that he would dominate the screen presence of nearly every artist out there. And then in the background was Paati, composed and calm as the moon, dressed in a scarlet saree bordered in purple, completed by the tiniest of smiles.
There was always something to them, a kind of magical attraction. In fact, having read a lot of stories of grandma protagonists, most notable being the one from Khushwant Singh and Ruskin Bond, the first pen picture that comes into my mind is that of my grandmother, Rukmini Paattiamma.
This is a short tale about her more than the tales told by her. Is it more about her biography? I know not, if I knew her close enough. Of all the cousins, perhaps my brother and myself had had lesser exposure to her, staying far, far away and being quite young at the time. But the tales she told, her gentle facial expressions changing and the sight of Thatha sitting in our home’s foyer, reclining backwards in the age old chair like a king, have been childhood memories that stretch back to when I was two-three years. Perhaps, that’s why people say that my thoughts are quite fast and my imagination runs amok. As I don’t have a yardstick, I don’t know if they really are. But many of them, as I believe, are because of the tales of Paati.
Paati has been painted a hero for many, through their own tales about her. It has been said that she had been the morning angel of the hamlet of Tungabhadra. Her typical day started with helping Thatha with the morning chores to setting things right for his restaurant, to arraying the kids for school and preparing food for the neighborhood. Once everyone else made a beeline to work or school, she could be seen helping the neighbors in their chores, humming a Nightingale song and listening to bhajans and old film songs. While she has had limited exposure to education, her way of running the household has marveled many, considering the sheer size of the joint family. She didn’t know personal finance or the numerous terms involved in it, she was so innocent to the point of believing everything in the name of mischief that the kids would conjure, but second to none in terms of nerves of steel.
Coming back to the part where paati and thatha visited us. When I was a child, some of the moments that I would cherish the most was Paati’s storytelling. She had a story for almost every occasion. For instance, when it rained accompanied by lightning and thunder, she would talk about Sri Krishna lifting the Govardhan mountain and cooling the wrath of Lord Indra and teaching him a lesson. Another fierce rainy day and the two-three year old you would ask ‘Why is it raining too much, Paati? Why is the lightning so fierce?’ And she would answer faster than the lightning flash, ‘Krishna is riding his chariot up there in the clouds. He and Arjuna are rushing to finish the evil ones’. And the two year old in me would counter, ‘Isn’t there enough space on Earth to ride the chariot? After all he’s Krishna, a God, he would be quicker than any evil one. ‘ She would laugh at this, and turn to my mother remarking my cheekiness at a young age.
There were many other stories that dotted our childhood days. There were classic ones which we had all read and some others apart- The story of Kozhukottai (A variant of Modak, the white spherical/geoid like dish), the peacock and the crow, Krishna and Kamsa and many others, stories wherein narratory justice was imparted only from her mouth, if not by the books.
As I got a little older, I figured that these helped me understand perspectives as mine would be different from hers, most of the time. It also helped me uncover my imagination quite early, a thing would perhaps put speed breaks over my tasks while also help me escape the mundane as I’ve been an introvert. Despite the limited time that J had with her, observing her and thaatha made me a keen observer of things, people and situations.
It has been twenty years to the day Paati left for her heavenly abode. While I wasn’t there physically, her last moments captured by the near and dear, wonderfully underlined her life.
In the hours of the setting sun, Paati had yet another near-normal day, having done washing utensils and stacking the clothes, until as if some divine realisation dawned on her. She called for Thaatha, lit a lamp, prayed to Lord Muruga and asked him to give her a glass of water when he came in. H couldn’t understand the restlessness but relented when she persuaded him. After about three sips of water, she rested her head on his lap as he felt her breath fading. The setting sun took the moon away with him, that day, just the tenth one of the new year of 2003. It was said that the Hamlet population suddenly found a surge at that tiny home in Tungabhadra. Men and women alike flowed to the home to catch a glimpse of her. Their stories of how she had helped them in the most crucial junctures of their lives filled the air and in their hearts thereafter.
She set away as an embodiment of relationship, patience, hard work, innocence, and what life was to be meant when lived for beyond the self.
