dimma

In the mean streets of west Delhi, a tiny woman from Bengal steers a heavy black ambassador painstakingly through Patel Nagar traffic. She seems very capable, even though you can barely see her head above the wheel. What you don’t see is that sometimes she keeps the hefty gear lock close to hand. No inconsequential hooligan has the right to come between her and her labours of love for her family. Later the same day, she holds her oldest grand daughter by the hand an takes her to gaaner class, where she raises her voice in the songs of Robi Thakur, singing of love and loss, God and nature.

This is my Didima. She of the loud funny sneezes, the deep spiritual faith, the pragmatic modern outlook, the sweet smelling pujo rituals and the warm sweaters she knitted at home. A woman from a different era - old school and old forms and old fashioned courage. We, her offspring had the freedom to be modern and liberal, because in her was preserved all the goodness and purity of an old fashioned way of thinking. If our experiments with life went wrong, she would be there, like a rock in her faith.

There was old school romance too. When her young strapping fiance was on the run from the police because he didn't believe in the British, she would dress in a Burkha and carry tiffin to him under cover of the dark. We've seen them together, Dimma and Dadu, and they are the type of married couple who make you remember that marriage is about blissful lifelong partnerships. No question of individual victory or compromise. The occasional friction yes, but always the unquestionable unity.

Our Dimma is an institution. I don't think we've ever ascertained the number of people who call her by this name, because her home was always open to friends and acquaintances. It would be an adda, staying at dimma's place, and endless riot of great food, ludo, taash, some gossip and major storytelling sessions.

You had an interesting life Dimma, didn't you? There was love and family, daughters and grand-children and a great grandchild, pets, weddings, funerals, civil unrest, war and even climate change! I'm sorry Dimma, that sometimes near the end you had to bear the inignity of feeling that the world was passing you by, that your body was failing you, and that you didn't have a use in the world anymore, sitting in your seat in the corner. You had a place though, and you will always have it. Without you, we would be rudderless, faithless, bland and culture-less. Because you tied so many of us to our roots and traditions, in a fast changing scary world, just by being there. In your white sari with a simple paar, your reading glasses carefully folded in a maroon box next to you, a diary and a medicine box by your side, a simple chain, a ring and a little sindoor to denote your status as the lady of the house.

I have missed your gentle care ever since I moved away after my short stint of living with you Dimma. I have missed you standing by the dinner table, making sure Sitaram has cooked my favourite alu bhaatey, bhindi, musur daal, and the strange nutri-nuggets that you can't understand my liking for. (Your daughter has tried to replicate your recipes, but sadly, it isn't the same.) I have missed the way you just sat near me those few times when I refused to tell you why I was crying (It was the end of my silly teenage romance). I miss you playing mum to me, when I lived away from her, and had small illnesses and small worries, and no one to tell. I miss you explaining to me why this series of Krishno is better than BR Chopra's Mahabharat. Most of all I will miss your guilty giggle when someone makes a slightly indecent joke, and the loud snort of laughter that you never quite managed to conceal. It's nearly 2 weeks now, and I still can't quite comprehend that you're gone.