So much dadigiri

On World Elders’ Day, Roshmila Bhattacharya writes about her adorable dadi. Read on.

Once, years ago, I accompanied my mother to her cousin’s house. It was a week day but since we were flying out of Kolkata the same evening, we dropped by, unannounced, late in the afternoon.

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My aunt was out, visiting friends. Only uncle’s 70-plus mother was at home. Dadi open the door apprehensively and peered at us, as we waited in the shadowed landing. It took her a few minutes to realise that my mother was her dear Mira’s daughter.

Then, she threw open the door and welcomed us in. After making sure we were comfortably seated, she painfully limped away to fetch us some water, explaining that her arthritis was playing up again.

Sorry, no fizz

I left the glass of water untouched till my mother urged me to take a few sips. I did, indifferently, as I looked around the room crowded with knic knacks.

Gently stroking my hair, dadi sighed, “You children like soft drinks, right? Sorry, I can’t offer you that.”

Ma hastily told her that we had just had a heavy lunch. “Still, it’s 4 p m, I’m sure you wouldn’t have said no to a cup of tea. But Bouma (her daughter-in-law) has locked up the kitchen cupboard and refrigerator,” she informed. “Where will I get

chai patti

, sugar and milk?”

Not complaining

She went on to tell us, without actually complaining, that my aunt was usually out socialising on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. She had tea with her friends while dadi sacrificed her cuppa.

“It doesn’t really matter, “ she said with a dismissive wave of her quivering hand. “At my age you take what you get. It’s only when guests drop by that I wish I could brew them a cup of tea, may be offer a samosa and a mishti too. When I was running the house, there was always nashta for everyone.”

Small memento

When we got up to leave, dadi invited me to her bedroom and dragged out a trunk from under the bed. Hunting around, she pulled out a small, gilt-coated, enamelled jewellery box and handed it to me.

“A gold box? For me?” I whispered wide-eyed. She smiled. “It’s not gold but yes, it’s for you. Something to remember me by since I couldn’t get you a fizzy drink.”

Decades have passed since.. Dadi has passed away.. The ‘gold’ box has disappeared. But her words still return to sear my soul. Over ten years ago, my father-in-law had a severe asthmatic attack and his heart gave way. As they were taking him away, my mother-in-law turned to me and said brokenly, “How am I going to live all alone in this house now?”

I reached for her hand and said, “You’re coming to live with us.”

Yours and mine

We were living in a one-room apartment in Navi Mumbai then, and had just enclosed the balcony. I had planned to turn it into a dining-cum-study room. I moved the diwan there and told her that it was her bedroom. The wavering smile she gave me reflected her relief.

Since then, she’s got her own bedroom which she shares with my nine-year-old daughter. I work six days a week and she runs my home with clockwork precision. None of the cupboards are ever locked.

If any guests drop by unexpectedly, she can give them tea, snacks and even cook them a meal. It’s as much her home as mine.