BHAUBEEJ
My father, Joshi guruji as he
was known, had chosen to be different. He had opted to be a teacher in a
village school and not follow the family profession of being a purohit. His
ideal was Sane Guruji. However, his training in the Vedas and Sanskrit as a
language was impeccable and hence even when there was any puja at the school,
he would conduct it with proficiency. I was the eldest child and my brother
Makarand was about four years my junior. My mother was content at being a homemaker:
she taught me many feminine skills like sewing, cooking, even making papads and
pickles.
Due to my father’s dedication
to his work, he had earned a lot of goodwill among the residents of the village
and also of nearby villagers. Officials from the zilla level would come for
inspection and tell others how the school was perfectly run. From the primary
level, my father had brought it to the seventh grade and he too had been
elevated to the rank of a ‘headmaster’.
The only exciting times in
the village those days were the festival times. During the month of Shravan,
there were many festivities followed by the Ganapati, Navaratri and Diwali.
Since television was not there, these festivals were the main source of
entertainment for us. All the delicacies were prepared at home. Barring a
chaiwala who kept a small stock of biscuits, there was no restaurant. The need
for one was never felt as eating out was nowhere in people’s dreams also.
‘Baba’ as we called our father was keen that I pass my matriculation at least.
He had made arrangements with a school in the district to allow me to appear through
it and he would tutor me at home after the seventh grade. Mother used to
grumble saying that after all the trouble, I would still be judged by culinary
skills and not academic achievement. Baba had a way of just keeping quiet over
such statements and continue to do what he wanted. Matriculation meant the
eleventh grade. Those years of studying at home were really memorable as father
would return from school and straightaway ask me to sit before him to study.
Then late in the night he would give me homework which he expected me to finish
during the day. Early in the morning, he would make me recite poems. It was a
regimen that had no break till I went though the board exam with flying
colours. Baba was relieved. Makarand was also next in line.
Two years after my
matriculation, Baba got me married to a young man called Madhav Sardeshpande
from Indore.
The family had some landed property and was well to do. They had income from
rents of their shops and also had dealerships in some engineering goods like
pumps, etc. At that time, Brahmin boys rarely went into business. I was from a
modest middle-class family but soon adjusted to the city life as well as a
large house and a retinue of servants. God gifted us with two lovely children:
daughter Girija and son Ameya. I went to visit my parents every two years but
Makarand came to Indore
for bhaubeej every Diwali. Life was
good. Makarand who had graduated had found a job in Nashik and had taken our
parents with him. The village property was sold and father was content with the
meager pension that he received from the state government. A few marriage
proposals had started coming in for Makarand and he had chosen a girl who
worked in a local private firm. But he kept his annual date with me for
bhaubeej. Each year, he bought a sari and a blouse piece for me and mother as
usual sent bags of homemade pharal specially anarsa which I really relished.
Makarand had become a father and he and his wife took care of the old parents
in the best way possible.
It was Diwali time when we at
Indore had
prepared all the sweetmeats. Makarand
would come-he never informed .it was taken for granted that he would reach on
bhaubeej day and stay overnight and then leave the next day. There was a nip in
the air and the days were short. Madhav had surprised me by getting me a
diamond pendant-something that I had never imagined I would own in my lifetime!
On bhaubeej day, I had made besan laddoos as that was what Makarand really
enjoyed eating. “Somehow tai, you have mastered the art of making besan laddoos.
I don’t eat anywhere else except at your place because I want to remember the
unique taste of pure ghee, raisins and almonds. Wah!” Makarand would tell me
and I would pack at least a dozen for him to take back home. It was past six in
the evening and there was no sign of Makarand-.neither a phone call nor a
message from his office branch in Indore.
I was keenly waiting when Madhav and his parents walked a few plots away to
meet the doctor couple who had redone their bungalow. I sat in the front
verandah waiting anxiously for my only brother.
I heard the gate open and I
saw Makarand walking slowly. I got up and went towards the front door. As usual
he touched my feet and said. “Tai, sorry I kept you waiting. The bus had a flat
and then I took a ride in a tempo-rickshaw and somehow made it here. My whole
body is aches and pains,” he spoke in a tired voice. “Never mind,” I comforted,
“Would you like a cup of hot tea first?” He shook his head. “Actually, I was
away from Nashik and as work delayed me I decided to come here directly. God!
Am I tired! But your sari is at home. I’ll arrange to send it across. And in
all this change of transport my little bag is lost so now I am without any
spare clothes! Can you beat it?” he laughed aloud.
“Don’t you worry. It is more
important that you made it today. I was getting worried. I will bring a fresh
towel and a set of pyjama kurta from Madhav for you. Tomorrow, we can go to the
market and buy a few clothes for you,” I assured him. I told him that I had
kept the aarti plate ready and that I should finish the ritual soon. He asked for
the towel - murmuring something about how dusty the roads were. Pushing his
right hand in the pocket, he took out his handkerchief, dusted it and dropped
it on the floor outside the bathroom door.
He then went into the washroom and opened the tap and closed the door. I
got the aarti ready and also kept the clothes on the rack outside the bathroom.
I
came into the drawing room and saw some people outside. There was a person on a
cycle and also noticed that my husband
and his parents were pointing towards the house. Madhav walked briskly towards
the house calling out to me. I rushed towards the door and opened. Then, he
suddenly froze and seemed tongue tied. “What is it?,” I asked “Thank God
Makarand has made it today. I had almost given up hopes,” I uttered. Madhav’s
jaw dropped but he gathered himself and faltered. “Where is he?” I pointed to
the washroom door. He shook his head and showed me the telegram. My hands began
to tremble – how is it possible? The message stated that Makarand had met with
a bus accident which was fatal. The body would come to Nashik the next day
after the post mortem formalities and that Madhav and I should start
immediately. In consternation I pointed
to the bathroom, the kerchief on the floor and the clothes on the rack and
tried to explain that he was actually here and that it must be a mistaken
identity! Madhav’s parents too came near me. I felt my mother-in-law’s hand on
my shoulder. Madhav walked towards the washroom and knocked. The sound of the
tap running was still audible. Then he pushed the door open. The light was on
and so was the tap but there was no Makarand inside.
So much mystery! Not at all predictive! Loved it Ma'am! Rather, I loved all of them!
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