Dida

They are not bitter sweet memories that I have of her. They seem to be pickled, a mixture of various ingredients, each with a lingering taste, that adds up to the picture of the great lady that she was. A spirit greatly split among her children, yet so whole. A fountain of love, joy and companionship, for the young and the old; for the near and the far. A celebration of life and culture, laying the deepest foundations in all our hearts. Such was my Dida, a simple lady with a big heart.
With Dida, it was the joy held in small moments that I most fondly recollect. Of her grand arrivals, in the middle of school seasons, a perfect foil to my dreaded lessons. Of her voice, carried across rooms, bidding people to do some chore or sit with her. Of her all white mane, glistening in the afternoon sun, streaming through the window. Of her elaborate cleansing sessions.
Upon her arrival I would firmly attach myself to her, a tail for all purposes. Thereon, I would imitate every little ritual of hers, with the commitment of a true disciple. Dida would sleep little at night and mostly doze off when the sun was just rising. What better example to follow, eh? When she would finally get up, the house would be in a bustle. A gargling and spitting session would commence in place of her morning ablutions, a portable steel basin bearing the brunt of her oral jets. Ma, who knew her routine only too well, would timely enter with the hot water kettle. Morning breakfast or rather brunch would begin with a couple of starters, which included a healthy spoon of chyawanprash, a glass of Viva dissolved in hot water, and then a portion of the cooked breakfast. Under normal circumstances, I would never get pangs of eating chyawanprash or drinking Viva, but throughout her stay I would claim these with my heart and soul. Soon after breakfast, she would get ready for her hot oil massage. I can only dream of it now. Any dissatisfaction earned the helping girl nothing more severe than a couple of outlandish nicknames; a display of affection, much disguised. After her bath, she would spend some time in prayers. She was a very pious lady. By the time she would finish, it would be lunch time. Lunch, like everything about her, was grand. I would patiently sit by her, while she offered the first morsel to the gods and then waiting for her to mix and match the items on her plate and create the perfect mouthful that I would hungrily devour. Nobody could replicate the taste that her divine hand bestowed; you could say it’s a secret recipe.
Throughout the remaining day she would sing, read and write, and engage us in a myriad of stories. Her laugh was infectious; it would rock and vibrate through her body, and light up everyone in the room and beyond. Life seemed to centre around her wherever she went.
Our family is anything but small; but she would find time to write to everyone and send her love and blessings. We cousins would create a ruckus over who should get to sleep beside her. Her heavy built and expanse of loose flesh was the real attraction; you would scarcely find a more cozy and adorable setting for your nap.
Remembering her is an honor, an inheritance of loss, a loss difficult to bear, a lesson in life, a lesson of love and above all, a boost of strength to never falter ahead.
Sleep Dida, not with the rising sun, but in peace and prosperity.