Till We Meet Again, Aunty! I Will Miss The ‘Naadoos’!

Some of us are fortunate enough to find our soul mates early on in life. I found my soul sister in the 7th standard. By the time we moved to the 10th standard, we had become the Jai- Veeru of our time. Or to be more contemporary, the Sonu-Titu of today. We were inseparable. We practically lived together. I would sleep over at her house. We would go for the early morning coaching classes together, finish school and have lunch at my house. And then vice-versa. Our families had got used to seeing the two of us together at all times. We had formed our own bonds with each other’s families. I shared one such bond with my friend’s mom. She passed away yesterday. While I try to make this reality sink in, my brain makes it harder by playing montages of my old memories with her.

Aunty

I used to call her ‘Aunty’ – just how all Indians address parent-aged women who are not otherwise related to us. She was a chaste-Bengali-speaking woman from West Bengal. And she married into a Bengali family living right in the Hindi heartland of India. She had learned her Hindi living there after her marriage. I and my friend loved to laugh when she still mixed verbs and genders from the two languages. She always joined in the laughter. Despite the language barrier, she had adopted Uncle’s friends as if they were her own. And the same went for all his interests and passions.

She was the quintessential Indian housewife and mother. I can still hear her saying “Soonuu, chaan kore nao” (take a bath). It was her regular morning greeting to my friend. She would always have food on the table for everyone in the family before they were ready to eat. And then she would keep calling out to them in Bengali to come to the dining table and eat, till they did. I loved her nariyal laddoos (Bengalis call them ‘naadoo-s’). She never forgot to save two for me anytime they were prepared in the house. I would enter the house, find a seat and there she would be in front of me holding a plate of naadoos.

For me, she also modeled the homely woman who knew self-worth and did not give up all her needs. She made it a point that the family stepped out for a dinner each Sunday. She expected Uncle to be home and ready to drive everyone out. On her birthday, she dressed in a resplendent saree. One of her special desserts would be ready to be served to anyone who came by.

I remember dropping in on one of her birthdays after attending an evening math class nearby. She treated me to a bowl of ‘paayas’ (kheer). It was 9/11. I watched the planes crashing into the towers for the first time on their TV. In my memory, 9/11 has since been welded with Aunty and ‘paayas’. How I wish I had picked up the phone and made the call to wish her on every 9/11 when I thought of her. How I wish I had known there were not going to be too many chances.

Gone Too Soon

The coronavirus took her away too soon. She fought it long and hard but lost in the end. I and my loved ones had been able to dodge the disease for a while, but it finally struck, and struck where it hurts. Most of us are mentally prepared at some point to face the loss of our parents. But hardly at such early stages in life. I could never have imagined that I and my friend would still be in our thirties when any of our parents leave us. Or that I would not be present with my friend and her family as they say the final goodbye to Aunty. That I would not be able to bid my farewell to her in person. I had never imagined their house without her in it. Never imagined Uncle without her by his side. I am still finding it difficult.

I believe in the great beyond, the afterlife. Aunty was soon to become a ‘nani’ for the second time, and her younger daughter was to become a mother for the first. Aunty could not have left her family behind now. I am sure she is still around. Her soul is tethered to their family. Her soul rests in their house. I am sure she is still watching over them, making sure they all eat well. There, I will miss the naadoos, Aunty!!