That morning, I was scheduled to catch an early flight from Ahmedabad to Kolkata. Around 5 a.m., I quietly pushed open the door to her bedroom downstairs. The room was dim, still, as if it too was holding its breath. She was asleep, lying motionless in the bed, the soft rhythm of her breathing the only sign of life. The night nurse, exhausted, dozed on the adjoining bed. I sat beside Ma’s pillow and simply looked at her face—so peaceful, so familiar, etched with the dignity of a life lived with strength and purpose. She had been confined to that bed for over eight months. The spark that had always defined her—the vitality, the alertness, and the deep concern for everyone around her—had been slowly fading.
A few minutes later, Alka came in. She had been my anchor throughout those long, trying months—steadfast, always knowing what to do when I didn’t. As we stepped out of the room together, I said quietly, “Somehow, I don’t feel I should go to Kolkata today.” She looked at me with some concern and said, “You must keep doing your work. I’m here.” She was right. I knew that if I stopped my professional engagements, I might fall apart.
May 28, 2012—thirteen years ago to this day—my Ma slipped away from this world. They say time is a great healer of all wounds. They are wrong. Time doesn’t heal—it helps you learn to live with the ache—but the emptiness remains. Thirteen years later, I still miss her just as much.
The Annapurna
My earliest memories of Ma are rooted in the kitchen. Raised in a bustling household of eleven siblings—eight sisters and three brothers—she learned to cook early under the watchful eye of her eldest sister, whose culinary skills she always described as legendary. Her father, a distinguished scholar and the first Indian to receive a D.Litt. from England, had instilled in the family a sense of discipline and excellence. Amidst such a large family, the kitchen was where order met creativity—and that’s where Ma quietly found her footing.
As my parents moved out of Bengal and spent years in Madhya Pradesh and Maharashtra, Ma absorbed the flavours and techniques of local cuisines. Her cooking evolved into a beautiful blend of tradition and experimentation—Bengali at heart, yet open to the world.
We grew up surrounded by the aroma of her food, shared generously with friends, neighbours, and anyone who walked through our door. Festivals were enjoyed less for the rituals and more for the food she prepared—snacks, sweets, savouries—each dish crafted with care, each guest treated like family. Even in her later years, she never held back. My son and his friends often gathered around her, drawn as much by the food as the affection it came wrapped in.
One story stands out, told to us by a friend’s wife. Her young son had stayed over at our place, and the next day asked his mother to make noodles “just like Didu made them last night.” She called Ma for the recipe and prepared the dish using every single ingredient Ma had listed. But after the first mouthful, her son frowned. “These aren’t the same,” he said. Confused, she replied, “But I followed Didu’s recipe exactly.” The boy thought for a moment, then offered quietly, “But Didu cooks with so much love. Where’s the love in your cooking?”
That was Ma. Her food was never just about taste—it was about warmth, generosity, and an unspoken love that turned even a simple fare into an unforgettable meal.
The Storyteller
On sweltering summer afternoons and rain-drenched days when we were stuck indoors, we children would gather around Ma. These were the moments we treasured—when she became our storyteller, spinning tales from her own life with warmth and flair.
We listened wide-eyed as she recounted the theft at their first home in a small town—how a thief had dug through the mud floor beneath the front door and vanished with her wedding jewellery. She told us of their early travels as a newly married couple—staying at a fellow traveller’s home in Faizabad as he refused to let them lodge anywhere else. And there was the story of the chance encounter with the future Prime Ministers of India—Indira and Rajiv Gandhi—on the lawns of their home in Allahabad. Young Rajiv, she recalled with a smile, had been fascinated by the brooch she was wearing.
We also grew up with Desh, the iconic Bengali literary magazine from ABP. Every new issue brought excitement. We’d eagerly help Ma finish her chores just so she could read aloud to us. One of our favourites was Abhishapta Chambal—a riveting serial about the dacoits of Chambal. I still remember the tragic tale of Putlibai, who was driven to banditry after being harassed for loving the infamous Sultana Daku. Her life inspired the film Mujhe Jeene Do, starring Waheeda Rehman and Sunil Dutt. Another gripping serial followed Emily, a sharp-witted female detective whose adventures, I’d argue, rivalled Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple.
But what truly brought these stories to life was Ma herself—her melodic voice, her expressive reading, and the way she sometimes acted out scenes made each story unforgettable. Without realizing it, I was learning a lesson that would shape my life as a teacher: how a story is told can matter as much as the story itself. Ma didn’t just tell stories—she brought them alive, and in doing so, she taught me the art of captivating students in a classroom.
Living By Herself
Ma was 68 when Dad passed away after a brief illness. The loss was sudden, and she was unprepared for a life without him—after all, they had spent 49 years together. In the immediate aftermath, she moved in with us in Ahmedabad. But within a month, I sensed a quiet restlessness in her. She seemed out of place, not because she felt unwelcome, but because something deep within her was unsettled. Then one day, she told us—gently but firmly—that she wanted to return to Nagpur and live on her own.
I was worried. Ma had never handled money or managed practical affairs—Dad had always taken care of everything. I voiced my concerns, but she met them with quiet conviction: “I’ll learn. I’ll ask you if I need help.” There was nothing I could say to counter that determination. And so, she went back—alone, to the home they had shared for decades. I took comfort in knowing my sister was nearby, and a close friend of mine lived just a few kilometres away. But still, I worried.
Slowly, Ma began to rebuild her life. She learned to manage banking, pay bills, and track her finances. What had once been unfamiliar territory became part of her everyday routine. That was also when I began calling her every single day—a habit that never broke. Our conversations were often short, exchanging pleasantries and mundane details of our lives. The daily ritual, however provided a connection, a quiet reassurance for both of us.
I made it a point to visit her every couple of months, and she would also spend time with us in Ahmedabad. Over time, I saw her grow—not in any dramatic way, but in the quiet, determined way only someone of her strength could. From a lifelong homemaker, she had become a woman who could navigate the world on her own.
It wasn’t until one of my visits to Nagpur, a few years after Dad’s passing, that I fully realised how much she had changed. The transformation had happened so gradually, so gracefully, that I hadn’t seen it coming. But there she was—steady, self-reliant, and quietly in control of her life. Ma had learned to live on her own terms.
The Making of a Universal Mausi
It was a crisp winter morning in Nagpur. I was seated in the downstairs living room of my mother’s Jantar Mantar apartment, flipping through the freshly delivered copy of the local newspaper The Hitavada. From the adjoining kitchen wafted the comforting aroma of breakfast being prepared, as always mom was at work before the day had fully begun. It was just past 7:30 a.m. when there was a hesitant knock on the door. I opened it to find a little girl, perhaps six years old, clutching a steel bowl and looking up at me—a stranger—with wide, uncertain eyes. She uttered just one word: “Mausi.”
My mother stepped out of the kitchen, her face lighting up with a smile, “Yes, Pallavi?” she asked kindly, recognizing the little visitor. Pallavi had come on her mother’s errand, this time for sugar. Mom filled the bowl with practiced ease and with a gentle laugh, said, “You call me Mausi, but I’m older than your grandmother!” I would later learn that Pallavi was the daughter of our next-door neighbour and a frequent morning visitor—with requests for salt, turmeric, milk, or sugar—my mom being the emergency supplier. With a chuckle, mom told me even the ninety-five-year-old lady who lived two apartments away called her “Mausi”—though she was a full twenty-five years her senior.
Thanks to an unexpected change in my schedule, I spent the whole day at home. The front door opened again and again through the day. The lady who lived in the flat above (just a shade younger to Ma) came down to unburden herself about ill-treatment by her son and daughter in law. A young couple three doors down stopped by seeking advice about their toddler’s sleep habits and diet. Later, a lanky 17-year-old strolled in, nervously seeking advice about a friend’s delicate situation that, to him, clearly felt like a Shakespearean tragedy.
Without exception, they all addressed her as Mausi. And in that simple, affectionate title lay the whole story. Ma had become an intimate part of the daily rhythm of life at Jantar Mantar. With quiet grace and worldly wisdom, she offered the residents of Jantar Mantar her love, comfort, and generosity, in unlimited measure.
Watching from the sidelines, I saw it unfold clearly: Ma was no longer just my mother—she had become everyone’s Mausi. And in a world that often feels indifferent and transactional, her modest apartment had become a sanctuary—a place where burdens were shared, tea was poured with tenderness, and people left feeling just a little lighter. What she offered wasn’t grand, but it was rare: presence, patience, and the kind of solace that asks for nothing in return.
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