Today her joy knew no bounds; Kuchalambal’s spirit was where it belonged, for she was celebrating Gokulashtami after almost six years. Six long years that seemed like eternity to her. Years that broke her spirit to continue. But today was different; she was preparing to celebrate the festival as she had for almost 6 decades of her life. Thanks to her newlywed tenants, Vishwa & Gomati.
It had been just one year since she had reluctantly let out the main portion of her house to them, herself moving into the single room at the rear. They had come into her life like the monsoon bringing new life to a barren land. A sharp shower of happiness that encompasses all that it surveys, bringing into life fresh blades of grass in the once dead terrain.
Vishwa & Gomati, the loving couple who had not many relatives to call their own, married and moved in with her from their respective hostel rooms. Both of them, having lost their parents, looked up to her like their own mother. Providence has blessed her with a second family, both a son and a daughter. Not more than twenty five years of age, they reminded Kuchalambal of her own progeny. One a young man of twenty eight settled in the US for the last six years, unable to come home even for an occasional break, and the other the twenty three year old lalita she had lost to an over-speeding truck which had crushed her under its wheels.
Sixty years of Gokulashtami had gone by. As many years, of drawing little foot-steps of the Lord, leading into the pooja room from the main gate, lakhs of cheedai, rolled into small balls for frying, Thousands of Murukus, delicately twisted with loving hands, perfect in shape, you could run a metro rail on them without it derailing, robust ‘Rava ladus’ carefully hand rolled, studded with cashews & raisins, perfectly strong to take the handling, and yet so soft to gently cave down in ones mouth when gently bitten.
Yes, she remembered all of it; right from the days of her childhood, the preparation of sweets for the puja was an event in itself. The large group of ‘Mami’s gathered at her place, each doing a task of their own, gossiping about the latest shocking events at each other’s houses, about the ifs and buts, mamiyars and mapilais, the latest design of “Patu” mami’s necklaces, that her husband seems to shower on her, with his ill gotten wealth, the latest story of how the next street ‘Lakshmi Mami’ had with great difficulty arrived from Burma. All those stories would sound so funny to her little ears as she would help in doing the odd tasks asked of her, picking up the bottle here, the vessel there, helping in rolling the Cheedais, losing patience and making huge ones, only to be scolded by her ‘patti’ and then making some so small, that she would be chased away by the ladies.
Then going through the torture of waiting for the ‘Puja’. Not getting any of the sweets to eat till the pooja is done with. Twisting and turning in mental torment, taking in the smell of each of freshly fried items. Finally sitting in the pooja room floor, waiting for her dad to finish the recitations, show the ‘Ararti’ and finally tearing into the large containers of goodies, and of course the feast that followed, of ‘Aamai Vadais’ and ‘Paal paisams’.
She had managed well, learning with each passing year, the intricacies of preparing for the pooja. The initial years after marriage to ‘Patabi’ were tough, using the ‘Kal Ural’ for grinding the rice floor, days beforehand, toiling over the stove and boiling vat of oil, the impatient of Patabi constantly peeping into kitchen, looking for his misplaced spectacles, or looking for his purse, looking for cup of ‘kapi’ or sometimes with glint in his eyes, calling her over to be by his side, and then the doting but stern eyes of her mother-in-law watching over each move of hers. The training by her mother and her own good hand at cooking, kept her in good stead, earning her the instant approval of her in-laws.
It was a great relief for her the first time around, when her father in law, having tasted the savories, exclaimed “Oh just like the ones my mother used to make” the remark inviting the stern disapproval of the mom-in-law in attendance.
Those had been good times, in fact her whole life has gone through quite comfortably, except for these last six years, first Pattabi, leaving her soon after Siddharth’s marriage, then losing Lalita, and then the final straw, Siddharth, leaving for the US, and wanting to settle there for a green card.
Tears rolled out from her eyes when she remembered all that, sitting in the kitchen floor, rolling those innumerable ‘Cheedais’ one by one as if each one of it accounting for one of her memories, slowing rolling down her hand, as a new memory caught her attention.
Unnoticed by her a few tears dropped into the dough besides her, making the dough more pious, perhaps adding a tinge of life to the dead dough. A memory rolled into a Cheedai, blessed is the person who consumes it!
All that did not seem to matter today, as renewed energy ran through veins, Kuchalambal, was startled, by Gomati’s cry for help, she was pleading, helpless to control her hand not managing the piece of dough as Vishwa made fun of her in the background. As Vishwa and Gomati pampered her with their love, her enthusiasms seem to seek a new high. Vishwa’s presence in the back-ground reminding her of her early years with Pattabhi.
Vishwa had made sure that all the groceries had been duly provided for. A Trip to Karol Bagh had ensured that all typical items like the Madras Vettalai, Garland, Tengai, and the all important Plantain leaf for dinner were provided for to assure of a perfect Tamilian pooja.
A new purpose seem to light up her future, the pleads of help from the young couple, lost in this huge world all by themselves, had found a perfect mutual foil in the needs of the lonely Kuchalambal, but that was yesterday. A new dawn seem to have broken into their lives, Kuchalambal, the mother once more, Gomati the naïve, but eager to learn young bride, and Vishwa, the confident young man, looking toward the love of both these ladies.
The proceedings went off as planned, toward evening the three assembled in front of the deities, Kuchalambal’s set of god and goddess, adorned the wall, some so old that the images were hidden behind layers of sandal paste and vermilion marks. She arranged the paraphernalia, with the young ones standing behind her. Each pooja utensil seem to bear some memories for her, as if the imprints of Pattabhi’s hands were left behind in them. As she lovingly handled them, she could feel his presence in the room. The loneliness of these last six years had seemed to disappear, a strange sense of security seem to uplift her mood.
Chanting “Hare Krishna”, “Hare Krishna” she retired for the day of hectic activities, not realizing that a small toddler “Krishna” was to very soon come into her life.
