On the Steps at the Edge of the Garden: Memories of My Friend, Philosopher, Guide and ‘Annapurna’

Every time I think of my mother, I am transported to Pune; to the home where I grew up. It was an old stone structure — built in the early 1940s — surviving the horrific floods of 1961. The rooms were large, the garden was spacious and it bloomed with all kinds of flowering plants, shrubs and fruit-bearing trees. There was a verandah, which opened to a sit-out and steps that led to the garden.

It was on these steps that my mother, my mummy, would sit, to send me off the school. She would stop whatever she was doing to walk me out the door and sit leisurely to wave me goodbye. All her chores would have to wait. I would bend and kiss her, a backpack on my shoulders and a water bottle in my hand. During one such moment, my father clicked a photo, one of my favorites to this day, which sits on my nightstand. 

One look at it is enough to bring a smile on my face. It has also given me a lot of solace and strength for the past five years, since mummy died. Of course there are several photos of us together, but it is this particular photo that brings me the most comfort. And it also sums up mummy in so many ways — caring, warm and thoughtful.

Mummy never worked — as in she didn’t have a conventional job. But I don’t recollect her ever being unoccupied. There were the never-ending chores at home, outdoor errands like grocery, bank, etc., a hectic social life and her writing. 

Yes, mummy was an accomplished writer. She had made a name for herself in the literary circles and won many awards for her translations of novels from her native tongue, Kannada, to Marathi, the language spoken at her in-laws’ home. What always amazed me was that she didn’t know a word of Marathi until she got married and moved to Pune in October 1969. She was 19 then. She took over the running of the home from my maternal grandmother, went to journalism school and began learning the language. Writing came naturally to her, as the daughter of a well known Kannada author — Prof. V.M. Inamdar. 

I remember as a young child, watching my mother burn the midnight oil to finish her assignments. Along with her translation work, she has written a few dozen articles in Marathi and Kannada magazines of repute. Those days there were no computers and she completed her writing work the old-fashioned way – until my father purchased a computer and much later bought theDevanagari software. 

I remember how she would struggle with some proverbs, to translate them in a way that didn’t compromise the meaning or the essence. I saw her dedication and determination, and understood the power of languages. I learned the value of hard work as well. And also the importance of  teamwork.

My father was involved in mummy’s translation work quite a lot. Especially when she was working on translating works of well known Kannada authors. He would proofread and sometimes critique her work, and help her if she stumbled. He also would write the “fair” copy of the transcript that would finally be sent for typing. 

I was a mere spectator then. And as an only child at the time,  I would not be happy that my parents were busy giving me attention. I would sometimes bother my grandparents, but they were old and would often be asleep by then. As I grew older, I began appreciating their camaraderie and the importance of their collaboration. 

I also understood the importance of learning multiple languages. With our annual trip to my maternal grandparents home in Karnataka, I picked up Kannada and later made it a point to talk in the language with mummy and my maternal grandparents and other relatives. I am fluent in Kannada but I cant read it or write – something mummy tried to teach me in vain. 

Mummy was versatile in Sanskrit as well. Though I never formally learned the language, I credit her for teaching me a lot of shlokas and sayings, some of which I have passed on to my kids. There was nary a speech where she didn’t quote a Sanskrit shloka or a proverb. The one that stayed with me along with the usual prayers she taught us is: “Muukam Karoti Vachalam Pangum Langhayate Girim |Yat-Krpaa Tamaham Vande Param-Aananda Maadhavam.” (I remember with devotion the divine grace of Krishna who can make the dumb speak with eloquence and the lame cross high mountains, I remember and extol that grace which flows from the Supreme bliss manifestation of Madhava.)

As my brother and I grew older, she would often cite this Sanskrit saying — “AlayEth pancha varSHANi dasha varSHANi thAdayEth /  prAptE thu SHOdashE varSHE putram mithravadh AcharEth.” (Indulge a child for the first five years of his life, for the next ten years deal firmly with the child.  Once the child is sixteen, treat him as a friend.) 

And she practiced what she preached. As I grew up, she became more of a friend and a confidante — not just for me but some of my friends as well. She was always there when I needed her, she comforted me and nurtured me — but all the same time she knew when to give space and when to let me take my own decisions. 

Mummy was quite a celebrity. She was gradually making a name in the Maharashtra literary scene as well across Karnataka. She would be invited for talks, panel discussion, or to judge a competition or grace an inauguration or opening ceremony.

A school rickshaw driver would proudly share any clippings or photos of mummy in the local newspaper or magazine. I would swell with pride – and often be amazed at how much she was accomplishing.

Despite her busy social life and literary career, mummy never ignored her kids or the home. The way she managed both – without ever rushing through any of her “duties” or taking a shortcut, was something I still struggle with. I remember our phone conversations when I had just moved to the states. I would call her for the silliest thing and complain about how much I had to do myself. Her only advice would be to manage my time well. It was only when I had kids of my own, that I really comprehended or appreciated some of the things she would say to me. “You will know when you become a mom,” she would say. And how true her words were. 

But above all, mummy was an exceptional cook. She was the “Annapurna,” the giver of food and nourishment.  Not only was she a great cook, she was considerate as well. If she made a potato subji, a certain way, she would make sure she sent it to one her nephew, who enjoyed it. She made notes of who liked what, and would make it a point to send it to them when it featured in her menu.

Years later, during her visits here, she would take over the kitchen and prepare the simplest and most intricate and elaborate dishes with the same ease. Even here she would make mental notes of our friends’ likes and dislikes, and treat them to their favorite food when they would visit her in Pune. 

I would ask her to make all the masalas for me, so that my food would taste just like hers. I have been trying for almost 25 years now, and nothing I make tastes remotely close to hers. 

Since she died in 2015, I find myself making a lot of dishes I grew up eating — comfort food mostly — as I try to savor those moments. Over the years I got a lot of her saris, her watch, and some books, in an attempt to hold on to her, any which way I can.

Mother’s Day had started becoming “a thing,” when I was growing up, thanks to Hallmark, but it was nothing like the way it’s celebrated now. I didn’t fuss over her or cook for her, but I would get her a greeting card.

But as years went by, and my kids started celebrating me, their mother, my ways of celebrating mine also changed. She would mostly be home, in Pune, where I would mail a card and flowers and call her to tell her that I love her. 

And now that she’s no more, I realize that there’s so much I want to say to her, so much I want to share with her, and so much more I want to do for her. All I can do is follow the lessons she’d taught me since my childhood —- be caring and thoughtful — and be a good mom to my kids, one who is always there, but who knows when to give space. And there’s one more desire —- be an excellent cook like her — but as of now that continues to be a work in progress.