My mother Snehlata, Photo: MC
I did not think that my mother Snehlata aka Zini’s memories would ever surge unexpectedly. Almost four years after she died on May 3, 2018, this morning her memories started looming large. Rather than doing a fresh piece I think it makes more sense to republish a tribute I wrote after her death.
The photograph that accompanies the piece was taken by me on her last visit to America, in Naperville to be precise. It is a picture that captures her essence in the twilight of her life.
Here is that tribute dated May 4, 2018:
“Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.”
Ever since I first read that austerely but powerfully matter-of-fact opening of ‘The Outsider’ by Albert Camus in the mid 1980s I had wondered how I might come to know of my mother Snehlata’s death.
Camus’ protagonist was informed via a telegram. I was alerted via Facebook messenger.
“Call me immediately,” wrote my brother Manoj from Jodhpur in Rajasthan.
I knew intuitively mother had passed away. There was none of the uncertainty and ambiguity of Camus’ protagonist for me. I knew precisely when she had died, how and where. Within minutes, I received photographs of her last moments.
Memories of my mother, more popularly known as Zini (which meant tiny), swirl around this morning. With my father having died when I was barely nine and her having outlived him by some 47 years she was effectively the only parent I knew. It so happens that today is my father Manharray’s death anniversary, the day on which Zini was cremated. They were both cremated on the same day 47 years apart.
Although devoutly Hindu in a very festive and joyous way, she was clear that she wanted no ritual or any fuss after her death. On her last visit to Chicago nearly three years ago, she told me not to organize any religious or cultural ceremony if she passed away here.
It was to her extraordinary credit that despite her overt beliefs in all religions—and I cannot emphasize “all religions” more—not once did she even subtly lean on either me or any of my three siblings to follow any of them. She knew I believed in nothing and had no judgment about it. Every time I drove her to a temple in Mumbai, Delhi, San Francisco or Chicago, she would ask me in jest, “Tu to bahar ubho rahish ne? (You will stand outside, right?)” We would both laugh even though she knew that not being burdened with any belief system it made no difference to me which building I went into. I always went in with her.
It is instructive that the instant recall of my earliest memory —in fact, Manoj and mine together—is that of Ma taking us both to what was known as the “Saatam-Aatham Melo”, a sort of carnival/festival to mark the birth of Krishna in August/September. If memory serves, it used to be on the dry Sabarmati riverbed in Ahmedabad. We went by bus up to a point and then walked. One was vaguely conscious that with father having passed away—or even when he was alive—money was always less than scarce. And yet somehow, almost magically, she never failed to buy Manoj and I a toy each and some delicious food. Once she bought us fleece jerseys—a yellow one for me and red for Manoj.
Those were remarkably happy and uncomplicated times for us even though, in retrospect, they must have been very difficult for her, particularly after the sole earning member of the family had gone. We got by on family support from Bhaskerray, my father’s younger brother, and later with some early earnings by my eldest brother Trilochan.
On her passing many of our family members and relatives are recalling today Zini’s “zest” for life. She did indeed have loads of it. I call it relentless enthusiasms. A ready smile, a warm handshake, an enveloping hug, a quick shaking of a leg and impromptu singing anywhere, anytime and in anyone’s presence were the essence of her life. It is a pity that she missed her natural calling as a sort of a variety entertainer/performer. I used to often joke with her that she should not have married but instead pursued a career in singing. Despite her tiny frame, she had a robust singing voice. Although she was untrained, she could belt out without any inhibitions whatsoever and nail it.
That was another feature of her life— a complete lack of inhibitions. I remember that much to my father’s chagrin, mother used to be an often-raucous participant in the annual Navratri—nine nights of dancing in deference to the Hindu goddess Amba. Once my father went to “sleep” mother, Manoj and I would slip out to the neighborhood’s Navratri dancing. She did dance very well, completely absorbed in her own rhythm even as she sang along.
That she would light up any gathering was a given. With not a self-conscious bone in her body she would take the plunge in the celebrations anywhere. Whichever neighborhood we lived in she managed to strike instant friendships across age groups. I remember when she visited us in San Francisco over a decade and a half ago. I had dropped her off at a local temple on way to work. The next day when I received the San Jose Mercury News there was a photograph of a group of Indian women with my mother dominating the scene. She had an unselfconscious charisma that mostly worked well but also annoyed some immediate family members. It is true that she could overdo some of her antics.
Since I married late at 33 mother ended up staying with me extensively in Bombay and Delhi where I worked as a journalist. I think among all her four children—Trilochan, Pallavi (sister), Manoj and I—I made it a point to be most candid with her about a lot of things. For instance, I used to ask her why she had four children instead of just one or two. There was no need for Manoj and I is what I would tell her, making her both uncomfortable and laugh at once. I would also ask her why she chose to marry at all. Her reply was that in those days she had no choice even though she loved my father with great devotion. She always thought of herself as a unit with Manharray, who was paralyzed in his 30s.
In the interest of brevity I would not like to stretch this reminiscence too long. To wrap up, let me cite one particular habit of mine that amused her no end. I always introduced her to my friends and acquaintance thus: “Meet Snehlata, my mother.” The general practice for people has been to simply say, “Meet my mother.” That irritated me because mothers have their own names, own identities, own desires and own angst which must not be subsumed to the grand label of just “Mother”, no matter how ennobling it may be.
I always recognized Snehlata as an individual with her own strengths and idiosyncrasies. I was long conscious that her being mother to us was just one of her aspects and not the aspect. After I moved to Delhi I said to her she should try wearing the local Punjabi salwar-kameez instead of only the traditional Gujarati sari. She was thrilled and began wearing that often to the mild but unspoken disapproval of some extended family members. When she came to the U.S., she joyously wore pants and tops. She would pretend to pick up an imaginary cigarette and take a few imaginary puffs and laugh. In those little moments she seemed to fulfill years of unmet aspirations.
Salwar-kameez became her default dressing in the latter part of her life even as she wore some lovely saris with matching blouses. I do not remember my mother ever looking disheveled, unkempt and uncombed. Not an expensive dresser for obvious reasons she was always meticulously turned out. An excellent and efficient cook her kitchen management was spotless. Not a spoon out of place and not a smudge on a plate. And yes, no fuss made at all about anything.
As she receded from the corporeal existence in a Jodhpur crematorium this morning, I remember her pouring water, using a stainless steel “tabudi” (a kind of small pitcher) on me as a five or six-year-old boy and singing “Har Gangey, Maat Gangey’ (Hail Ganga, Mother Ganga)” as if channeling the waters of the great river right into the tin bucket in Ahmedabad.
Here is to a mother with relentless enthusiasms—Snehlata.
