Home is where the heart is.

is that why I am only partially here?

Another Sister, Another Story

In the land where Shakti is worshipped, lives Lakshi. She was named after Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. She lives in the slum in Naigaum beside the apartments where my siblings and I were raised. Most days, she sleeps in the clinic lobby that she sweeps and keeps clean for the homeopathic doctor. Lakshi works for many homes in the building in exchange for money and food. She is treated well. She knows us all and often heralds her arrival with her voice before her physical presence.

Long years ago, Bhabhi taught her children to call her Lakshi Ajji ( grandma). Until then most people had called her by her shortened name, after all who would dare sully the revered name of the Goddess when they hollered for a ' maid'. She is quite happy go lucky, sassy and brimming with retorts even. If Lakshi likes you, it is the Naigaum equivalent of the 'A' list. Her devil-may care attitude and demeanour are coping strategies to survive in the harsh world she inhabits.

My brother jokes with her and gets her little treats. She banters with him too and all is well. The gifts I bring her when I return to Mumbai make her feel she is part of the family, she tells me: "Didi, you have not forgotten me" she says with a smile.

From my school and college days, I remember Lakshi had 4 daughters. They had beautiful names: Hira (diamond), Tara (star), Mangala ( the auspiscious one) and Nirmala. One day, after years of suffering, her husband died of tuberculosis, a gift of years of hard labour in the textile mills, the sad story of innumerable, nameless people in that 'city by the sea' as Rohinton Mistry calls it. Today all that is left of the booming textile industry are the skeletons of factories and smokestacks, huge under-construction office complexes that are prime real estate and vada-pav. There are also sepia prints of those long dead men on the walls of their family dwellings: each chawl room neater than any mansion I have seen.

Lakshi's older daughters died too, one after another. The two younger ones eke out a living somewhere, she speaks of them sometimes. Mostly, she talks about her grandchildren. Like most grandparents everywhere, she is proud of the boys. She keeps me informed of their whereabouts and I listen as I think of all the choices that I have in my privileged life that they cannot ever imagine.

On my way to the airport, I had asked her if I could take her picture. She sat down on the very pavement that is her chatting ground. I clicked one picture. Then she asked me to take another one. She covered her head and sat up straighter to pose for the picture. She rewarded me with a serious look, no smiles for an important event such as this. " Don't worry, I am here, I will watch over your mother's place until you return" she assured me.

And I know she will. I hope to return next year for Amma's 70th birthday and if I am lucky Lakshi Ajji will still be there asking in her sing song voice: "Aalis ka Didi, kashi ahes?" (have you returned sister, how are you). Ironically, young and old in the neighbourhood call me Didi, (elder sister) following my siblings' lead. I have done nothing to receive this label of seniority, any more than I deserve the choices that pave my way.

In a land that boasts Chanda Kochhar, Sudha Murti, Kalpana Chawla and Bachendri Pal, lives Lakshi. Can I live with that ? Can you?