Thakuma

Thakuma is a generic name by which many Bengali children call their paternal grandmother. This is the name that Baba used fondly for his grandmother too. You have seen her and were lucky enough to share some sweet moments with her.

Thakuma passed away a few days ago. No one was quite sure what was the exact illness which took her finally, but it was at the end of a protracted number of ailments which generally befall people at an advanced age and doctors label it as age-related. We were in Bangalore at the time that she spent around 20 days in the hospital with a number of tubes attached to her body supporting her many organs so we did not see her, but I have heard that she was in a lot of pain and the eventuality brought relief to her.

I have seen her as an old frail woman, I have not even seen a photograph of her young, but from her broad forehead and mischievous, bright eyes, I think she must have been a force to reckon with in her heyday.

Through facts oft repeated by the family who have known her, mostly your Baba, I gleaned precious information about her life. She was the person who took Baba for his swimming test after he failed umpteen times and his parents refused to accompany him on any more futile efforts. On that occasion, he passed the test. When he traversed the length of the pool of Calcutta Swimming Club and looked back at where he began, he saw this woman in white waving at him, proud that he had not given up. It is a wonder how grandparents often believe in you much more than your parents ever will.

She was a life-long learner. When Baba was a little younger than you, Thakuma only knew how to sign her name on her cheque book, but had to depend on someone else to fill the rest of it because she did not know how to read or write in English. So one day she took it upon herself to learn. She would take the English books which Baba was using in school to learn and taught herself a language. Soon she could sign her name on a cheque book and read the newspaper. Maybe that is what led her to buy your Baba his first guitar when he wanted to learn. She was a woman who appreciated and loved music. Before her husband had passed away, they would together play the Sitar. They would sit on their individual instruments and she would sing. No wonder she wanted to fan the love of music in Baba as well.

I have not seen her as a young Sitar-playing, newspaper reading woman but I find her in faces of Baba’s aunt (Pishi-Amma) sometimes, or maybe she is present in the mannerisms of Dadu or Bujan Dadu. I hear that she is from a small village called Satkhira which is in present day Bangladesh. It is a hazy remembrance, but apparently on the eve of India’s Independence she and her friends were making flags and casually talked to each other, like only the young can,  wondering if they would be part of India, and hence were they making the right flag. Even my grandfather (Dadan’s father), who I have not met, was from there. I sometimes look at the map and see their footprints there – hers, my grandfather’s, and all who walked before them. As long as the footprints are in our hearts, these memories will never be erased.