November 4th, 2010
I am resting at home and as I watch the pine trees wave through the window against a sunny sky streaked with white clouds, I welcome another Diwali into my life. I want to make memories, to last me in the years ahead. I think of the memories that I carry in my heart. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.
My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was born on February 28th 1912. I know her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a young woman graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' the other mother'. She went by the name Lilavati when she married and I am told developed quite a reputation for being a a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I don't think she cared too much about what people thought of her, a gift she left with me, whether genetic or through her nurture I do not know. And when I stood up for myself, she would whisper to me: "Tukka saglein mhantalein: Paley paley Lilavati gali naati" I take that as a compliment.
When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to teach and was out of home for the day. Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in the semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She made up nonsense rhymes for me, she made me laugh, she taught me to roll chappatis and waited with me as I fed them to the stray cat in the compound. She told about Pappa's childhood, her own, she shared the good memories and as I grew older, she shared the stories that made my history. I know therefore the dreams that were dreamt and which ones were not fuilfilled.
She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained. I bristle when people who did not know her as well as I do, speak of her from one perspective, the danger of that single story irks me. I take this opportunity to share with family and friends a glimpse of the amazing woman who raised me.
Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the first-born of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits. I was a lucky little girl.
Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She would explain to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD. I would stare wide-eyed.
I remember asking her: "How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" She had laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. She can fight evil, she can make the world a better place. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.
At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns and invite everyone to do the Abhyanga Snana. Pappa and Ajjapappa would be subjected to her minstrations and then she would turn to me. Afterwards, she would give us a 'kaarit' a small fruit that smelled like cucumber, which the men were supposed to crush underfoot as a representation of ' Lord Ram's victory over Ravan'. But my Teemma was a feminist to the core. She who was married at 16, never had the opportunity to study beyond marticulation, was one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. She would say:
" Rashmee, go ahead and squash evil, get a kaarit. Who cares if this is Diwali, remember the Goddess? She destroyed evil too" My Dassera and Diwali would merge in a way. Overjoyed, I would take a kaarit and squish it with my tiny feet. I remember the delight in her eyes, that mirrored the joy in mine.
And to this day when I am faced with demons of any kind, I use my ' 8 arms' to battle them. She had me believe all those years ago, that I was capable of getting through the mess that Life throws at me. In my adopted and beloved home in Canada, I foolishly go looking for kaarit. They used to grow on walls in Fontainhas, Goa and I would pick them off the vines. Here, not many people know what a kaarit is. This summer, I showed the children that wall. There is a sparkling FabIndia in that building, the wall is freshly whitewashed, the karrit vine lives only in the bylanes of my memory.
So I guess tomorrow after their Abhyanga Snana, the kids and I will squish a small cucumber instead.. (and feed it to the birds after, so that we don't waste food: another Teeamma message).
Happy Diwali everyone.. May the light shine on in your lives.
I am resting at home and as I watch the pine trees wave through the window against a sunny sky streaked with white clouds, I welcome another Diwali into my life. I want to make memories, to last me in the years ahead. I think of the memories that I carry in my heart. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.
My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was born on February 28th 1912. I know her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a young woman graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' the other mother'. She went by the name Lilavati when she married and I am told developed quite a reputation for being a a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I don't think she cared too much about what people thought of her, a gift she left with me, whether genetic or through her nurture I do not know. And when I stood up for myself, she would whisper to me: "Tukka saglein mhantalein: Paley paley Lilavati gali naati" I take that as a compliment.
When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to teach and was out of home for the day. Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in the semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She made up nonsense rhymes for me, she made me laugh, she taught me to roll chappatis and waited with me as I fed them to the stray cat in the compound. She told about Pappa's childhood, her own, she shared the good memories and as I grew older, she shared the stories that made my history. I know therefore the dreams that were dreamt and which ones were not fuilfilled.
She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained. I bristle when people who did not know her as well as I do, speak of her from one perspective, the danger of that single story irks me. I take this opportunity to share with family and friends a glimpse of the amazing woman who raised me.
Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the first-born of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits. I was a lucky little girl.
Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She would explain to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD. I would stare wide-eyed.
I remember asking her: "How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" She had laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. She can fight evil, she can make the world a better place. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.
At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns and invite everyone to do the Abhyanga Snana. Pappa and Ajjapappa would be subjected to her minstrations and then she would turn to me. Afterwards, she would give us a 'kaarit' a small fruit that smelled like cucumber, which the men were supposed to crush underfoot as a representation of ' Lord Ram's victory over Ravan'. But my Teemma was a feminist to the core. She who was married at 16, never had the opportunity to study beyond marticulation, was one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. She would say:
" Rashmee, go ahead and squash evil, get a kaarit. Who cares if this is Diwali, remember the Goddess? She destroyed evil too" My Dassera and Diwali would merge in a way. Overjoyed, I would take a kaarit and squish it with my tiny feet. I remember the delight in her eyes, that mirrored the joy in mine.
And to this day when I am faced with demons of any kind, I use my ' 8 arms' to battle them. She had me believe all those years ago, that I was capable of getting through the mess that Life throws at me. In my adopted and beloved home in Canada, I foolishly go looking for kaarit. They used to grow on walls in Fontainhas, Goa and I would pick them off the vines. Here, not many people know what a kaarit is. This summer, I showed the children that wall. There is a sparkling FabIndia in that building, the wall is freshly whitewashed, the karrit vine lives only in the bylanes of my memory.
So I guess tomorrow after their Abhyanga Snana, the kids and I will squish a small cucumber instead.. (and feed it to the birds after, so that we don't waste food: another Teeamma message).
Happy Diwali everyone.. May the light shine on in your lives.
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