"We are like Butterflies who fly for a day and think it is eternity"
(Carl Sagan. 20th. century American writer)
"Biji"
Bimla Rani Bedi
July 31, 1928 - September 27, 2010.
My mother, Biji (as we kids called her), was born in Lahore. She was the eldest of five sisters and two brothers. She grew up in a joint family with grandparents,uncles, aunts and cousins and stayed in touch with all of them her whole life. Many of them came to pay their last respects to her. She always spoke fondly of them.
Biji got married in February of 1947 at the age of 18 yrs. She had seen papaji from a high, narrow window, getting a view mostly of his turban. Papaji only got to see biji's mom and had to guess her looks from that. Within six months of the marriage India was partitioned into Muslim Pakistan and secular India. Biji and papaji's families were on the wrong side. There was ethnic cleansing and the two families lost many members, along with almost all of their belongings, land and savings in the form of gold - buried in earthen pots under the kitchen floor (common during those times). Papaji had quit his aeronautical training as protest against the British and was able to find job as a clerk in Simla. His elder brother was there too. That is where the two families slowly gathered over many months. Biji told many heart rending stories of hardship and terror of this period. Decades later she would see a bed or a shingar mirror and tell us it looked like the one from her dowry that they left in Pakistan. She told us they had to eat on the newspaper and wear clothes that were hand-stiched and made of sac flour cloth. And then she would take a long sigh and go on with her chores.
I was born four years after the partition. My first visual memory of her is of biji in a very pretty aqua blue salwar kameez. Papaji and biji had just come back from somewhere and she was checking up on me and my brother while we slept. I opened my eyes a little bit and saw her smiling sweetly at me. Behind her was papaji. He had already taken off his turban and was wearing sleeping clothes. He looked unkempt to me. Next day I asked biji, "You are so pretty; how come you did'nt marry someone better?" I have been teased over this forever. My olfactory memory of biji goes back much further. There is this particular smell of ponds cream, clean clothes and something warm and 'just right' that reminds me of biji.
Biji was a full time mother. I do not mean it in the sense of employment but in the sense of engagement. We children never felt she had anything else she needed to do or was interested in anything other than us. Her own needs always came after ours. We had her full attention whether we were telling her about our numerous daily scrapes or long winded opinion of the world according to us. She always sided with us and played along with all our fantasies. She was a wonderful listener and rarely imposed her opinion or viewpoint. She was our security blanket in infancy, a safe home in childhood and sometimes a punching bag in teenage years. As grown ups we often took her for granted and remembered to be nice sometimes only. She forgot all the hard work and difficult times with us and kept our few compliments and small gestures of thanks near her heart. Now that she is gone her room looks abandoned and empty. We sit on her bed and talk about her. She was soft spoken and shy, reticent with strangers and held back her opinion in a group. She often stayed in the back ground and let us shine. She often told us we were her shining stars. She frequently quoted a punjabi folk saying, "Maa Kuchajji; Thia putra kajji" (Mother lacking in art; children make her look smart). She thought the world of us and that made us think the world of ourselves.
In this changing world and specially in the turbulent world of growing years biji had a stabilising effect. She was consistent (always home, always available), dependable (had our meals ready, our clothes washed and ironed and layed out for school, stayed with us day and night when we were sick) and kind (forgave our mischiefs and trespasses, overlooked our rudeness and smiled when we came home no matter what). She was truly a hands on mother. Papaji was the authority figure in the house but it was biji who taught us right from wrong. We cared for her approval and she used this to gently discipline us. We have all grown up to be very different individuals, with our own set of values and beliefs, that are actually closer to papaji's than biji's, yet we are like biji in people skills and and when it comes to mothering our children we try to emulate her.
My brother's two sons practically grew up under biji and papaji's care. The two of them, Savvy and Suppi, performed many of biji's last rites. Biji loved them with her whole being and they love her back same. My children, due to the great distance between USA and India, did not have the privilege of extended close contact, but managed to form intimate lasting bonds all the same. Biji invested in these relationships tirelessly when she was with them and it withstood the test of distance. When she saw my daughter for the first time (age one day) and found her staring back with alert, focused and bright eyes, Biji announced she was Jyoti (brilliance) incarnate. We have never called our daughter anything else since that day. Biji took care of Suraj, our second child, for a month (at age 11 months) and he chose that time to start talking. Biji was the first person he called mom. Ravi, our baby (21 yrs now), was born seven weeks premature. He had hard time maintaining body temperature. The doctors wanted to keep him in an incubator but Biji offered her lap. She kept him wrapped in her arms and warmed against her body till he was OK. Ravi grew up listening to biji's cooing and baby talk. She bounced him on her knees the whole day and bathed and diapered and fed him into a healthy infant. She left her home and stayed with us for six months until she was sure he would survive. Biji is a home-bound kind of person. She rarely goes out of the house and when she does, it is never alone. But when I needed her after Ravi's birth she flew alone from New Delhi to Lincoln, Nebraska. This feat was accomplished in spite of the fact that she did not know a word of English and had never before been in an airplane. She carried a slip of paper with a few relevant sentences written on it in Punjabi and translated in English. This was her lifeline to ask for help when needed. Till today I cannot believe that she made that journey and even more surprising that she made it all the way home to us. I love you so much biji.
This year for quite some time biji was not well. She was slowly succumbing to asthma, arthritis in her legs and old age in general. Bablee, my sister, who has made her home with biji and papaji nursed biji diligently. Bablee is like biji - tirelessly giving, patient, kind and cheerful. She is the best gift biji and papaji can have. Biji insisted that this year I should come home for Diwali (Nov. 5th.). I planned to be with them from Nov. 2nd. - Nov. 14th. We had great plans for Diwali. Biji fell ill towards the end of September. She spent about 10 days in the hospital and then breathed her last in the ICU. Bablee sat near her bed, holding biji's hand with one hand and talking to me on the phone with the other, thus letting me too share the last of biji's moments. ICU allowed only one person to stay with biji; So papaji sat in a room nearby with Savvy. Biji's brother and papaji's sister waited in our home in Delhi. Rani and Suppi waited in their home near by. It was a sad sad day.
I reached Delhi two days later. Many of our relatives had already reached our home and were waiting for me. Biji was in the morgue alone. This had bothered me the whole way. Next day papaji, Biji's brother and I went to the morgue and brought biji home. We laid biji on the floor and the whole family stood around her quietly sobbing, except for biji's youngest sister, who was howling loudly. She sounded just like biji. Biji would cry louder and longer than anyone else at funerals. Sometimes it would be a funeral at a neighbor's house; that family would stop crying but biji could not stop. The mourning family would have to start consoling her. Papa ji put sindoor (red powder; symbol of married women) on biji's forehead. Biji had some cotton stuffed in her mouth and nose from the morgue. Biji does not like these kind of things. She never even ate cotton candy because she did not like the look and feel of it. I wanted to pull the cotton out but did not. Soon the priest came from the gurudwara and offered Ardaas. Then we put biji on plank of wood with horizontal bars for six people to lift her up. This is called 'Arthi'. We took biji out for the last time from our home. We decorated the arthi with shawls and marigold flowers - a flower of festivals and funerals alike. Then we took biji to the cremation grounds. On the way she paid her last respects at the door of the gurudwara and then continued her last journey. We all (immediate and extended family and friends) followed biji. Biji travelled in an ambulance. Suppi travelled with her. We travelled in various cars. I travelled with Nandini (my sister-in-law) Swaroop Babu and their daughter Leema.
The cremation grounds looked clean and deserted. Six young men, Savvy and Suppi among them, carried Biji on their shoulders. We were guided to a platform where biji rested for a while. A gurudwara priest, I think the same one who was at home, offered another Ardaas. Then we put biji on the cremation platform. It is a low platform, about a foot in height and about five feet by ten feet in length. It is built of hard, cold cement. There was a bed of dry kindling wood made up in the middle of it. Biji was taken from the arthi and made to lie down on this funeral pyre. The relatives started calling Savvy and Suppi to place the sandal wood piece with ghee on it near biji's head and body. I reminded everyone that our papaji is still here to do it himself. Papaji, with shaking hands did what needed to be done. Then we all collected more wood from a pile near by and piled it on biji till biji was not visible at all. Papaji got up and gave the Agni, ritual fire, to the pyre. Bit by bit the pyre lit up and we stood around watching it, too numb to feel any thing. Bablee, Rani, and I stood arm in arm, supporting each other, knowing that we are the front line women of the family now. Papaji looked broken. Many family members stood around him, consoling and crying themselves. After about an hour we bid good bye to the grounds and headed home - without biji. At home we fed every one present. The lunch was arranged and given by biji's younger brother's family, as is the custom. The next day's lunch was given by biji's older brother's family. Rani, my brother's wife, and her brother gave the next day's lunch. It was a few days before we needed to take care of things and we sorely needed the respite. We are so thankful to our families who all pitched in some way or the other.
The next day is what was the hardest for me. We woke up early and went back to the cremation grounds. There was Bablee, Savvy, Suppi, Biji's brother (Narinjan mamaji), papaji's brother (Mohinder chachaji), Chachaji's grandson Preet, Balbir (biji's youngest brother's wife), Rani's sister-in-law's brother-in-law and me. Very few compared to yesterday but still a crowd; enough to hold each other up when needed. We walked to where we had left biji. Biji was not there. There was a pitifully small pile of ashes but no biji. We combed through the ashes and picked any bones we could find and collected them in a wide bowl. Savvy found biji's right knee joint and looked at it commenting, "This is the knee that gave biji so much pain". Suppi saw parts of biji's head pieces and wanted us to look too. Bablee and I quietly picked through the ashes for bones, barely holding our tears, afraid that if we started once we will not be able to stop. Biji's bones were like chicken bones, small and splintered. In the beginning every one tried to prevent us from touching our biji's ashes, hinting that it was Savvy and Suppi's (and other men of the family's) privilege. Bablee and I did not listen to this cruel and ignorant custom. Balbir soon bravely joined us.
We cleaned biji's bones in water and put them in ceremonial red cloth bag. This was placed in the care of cremation ground officials, to be retrieved when we can go to Haridwar and hand them over to the river Ganga. The officials gave us a token, as proof and identification of this bag. Bablee put this token in her purse and looked around befuddled. Biji now was token number 59. We collected biji's ashes too and put them in a woven plastic bag. Savvy and Suppi used shovels. Bablee, Balbir and I used our hands. We then poured water to clean the platform. Dhoop (campher, a kind of incense) candles were put on the four corners of the platform and Savvy was invited to light them. Again, an honor reserved for sons, and in the absence of sons - grandsons. In the presence of these well meaning but antiquated and self serving attitudes Bablee and my wishes and needs were again and again sacrificed to this dinosaur of a custom of patriarchal society. I did not want to fight over my biji's ashes and so let this battle rest for another day.
From the cremation grounds we took biji's ashes to Majnu Ka Tilla, a gurudwara by the banks of the river Jamuna. Mohinder chachaji, Preet, Mamaji, Rani's sister-in-law's brother-in-law left for home. Bablee, Savvy, Suppi, Balbir and I left for the gurudwara with biji's ashes in Suppi's lap. The gurudwara was about 45 minutes away. It is a modest structure, out of town and out of the way. It was almost empty with only the care takers around - perfect setting for our visit. We, however, felt a little lost as to how to proceed. Someone had alerted us that this was not a legal place for offering ashes to the river. Another person convinced us that the gurudwara allowed such services. I did not want to leave biji illegally in this place. So I went to an official-looking room with some men in gurudwara clothes. I told them the purpose of our visit (and choked doing so). They were very kind and showed us the way to the bank of the river. We walked by the side of the gurudwara, along its white marble wall, and felt welcomed. Suppi walked ahead of us, carrying biji's ashes on his right shoulder. The bag looked heavy and half way Savvy ran over and took them from Suppi. When they reached the steps, leading down to the river, they looked uncertain. The river was full from recent rainy season and flowing rapidly. The water was muddy and surrounding area was full of soft,fine, wet silt. The steps led down to a small rivulet of fast moving water that within few feet joined the main river. There was no way we could make it to the main river. The small rivulet would have to take biji to the river. A small urchin of a boy had followed us from the gurudwara entrance, and now, when he saw us hesitating, he ran forward, dragging his thin but agile body through the silt. He jumped into the rivulet and looked up at us giggling, his hands raised to help us. I saw him standing there in hip deep water and thought biji would like him. He would have helped us but we were not going to say bye to our biji through this (surely) God sent angel. I took off my chappals (flip-flops), handed my purse and camera to Bablee and dove into the silt and then water, taking courage from the urchin's presence. He squealed with laughter and pointed to my muddy clothes. On the way down, having misjudged the depth, I had slipped and slid down ingloriously but safely.
The water was pleasantly cool in the late morning heat. The current looked fast but did not feel de-stabilising. I took the bag from Savvy, opened it and started letting the water slowly take biji with it. Savvy in the mean time had taken his shoes off and jumped into the water next to me. He swatted my arm holding the bag of ashes and yelled, "I am supposed to do this". I looked at this newly indoctrinated young species of Indian male with pity and remembering how much biji loves him handed him a corner of the bag. 'This battle of educating the new generation of males of equal rights had to wait for another day too'. We saw biji slowly being carried away by the current to the Jamuna, with the acompaniment of the urchin,s giggling, like the tinkling of temple bells.
We stood there at the top of the steps, watching biji leave on her eternal journey. She swirled round and round at the junction of the rivulet with the river - reluctant to go; just like us. Then she was carried away swiftly on a fast current and we too turned towards home. There was a resident care-taker waiting with a water hose to help us clean our very muddy feet. He then invited us to have some langar (ceremonial food taken after prayers). Balbir told us that this was customary, so we sat down where instructed after washing our hands with soap and water. A group of sants (holy men) served us food. There was a place to donate money to continue feeding more people and we gladly contributed there. The kindness these gentle men showed us with their small gestures, when our spirits were bruised, was balm to our psyche. We requested a photo of all of them and they were immensely pleased to comply. They piled up on this charpai (Indian cot made of jute), our urchin joining them giggling. I took a few pictures of them and a few more of the surroundings. Then we went in the main gurudwara to pay our respects. Journey home was quiet and sombre. When we reached home papaji was at the door to give us a hug; and we really needed it.
Next three days were taken up with Akhand Paath (akhand = unbroken, paath = reading of the Sikh holy book). The paath was done by gurudwara priests. We had to keep them fed with snacks and tea. There was a team of six men who took turn reading the Granth Sahib (Sikh holy book) for two hours at a time. This was a loose arrangement; when the priests did not show up on time, family members pitched in. Mamaji took overall charge of the paath and biji's sister, Bachan, stayed up to take care of the tea making through the nights. Balbir took charge of the kitchen along with Albina and Sunita (our regular domestic help). Many many thanks to all of them. Biji and papaji's immediate family and some cousins stayed with us through the whole time. We sat around and talked of old times, remembering other funerals and weddings too. Biji was the topic often. We had many laughs and quite a few cries too. This was a good time to re-connect. On the third day the Paath was concluded with kirtan (singing of hymns) and Ardaas (concluding prayer). Many more family members, friends and neighbors came for this ceremony. This is the main memorial service. Afterwards we all sat down for langar given by papaji. We framed and put biji's picture in the family room and adorned it with marigold garland to let her know how special she is. In the evening all the relatives left. Suppi stayed back with us. Papaji, Bablee and I felt relieved and adrift in the big house at the same time.
The family, the rituals and customs, and the work of having so many guests at home had helped us through the acute phase. Now we had to learn to live without biji. We are filling our days with day to day mundane tasks. They help a lot. The house is very empty though. On the 12th. of october we will take biji's flowers (bones) from the cremation office to Haridwar, a city about seven hours away. This city is built on the banks of sacred river Ganga; a ceremonial resting place, from times immemmorial, for loved ones final remains. Papji will offer a prayer and then we will let biji's flowers rest with mother Ganga. Usually a priest offers the prayer, but papaji wants to do it himself. Savvy, Suppi and Rani will be with us. We have decided to take Albina and Sunita with us too. They are thrilled at the prospect of seeing this new city. I wish my kids and Sachi could be with us. Thousands of miles of distance is keeping them away. We will have special services for biji in our home too.
On 14th. of October we will go back to Majnu Ka Tilla gurudwara and observe the Sataarva (seventeenth day ceremony). We will visit biji at the banks of the Jamuna, pay our respects at the gurudwara, feed the poor and conclude the mourning period. We will not celebrate any holidays this year. There will be no Diwali that biji wanted so badly. On 16th. of October I will go back to USA and life will go on.
We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is eternity.
