Hand that Rocks the Cradle

The other day I got a forward from my father which caught my attention. This is how it went:

My Mom’s Saree Pallu

I don’t think our kids know what a pallu is as mothers now rarely wear sarees. The principal use of Ma’s pallu was to provide the elegance to her drape. But along with that, it also served as a potholder for removing hot pans from the stove.

It was wonderful for drying children’s tears and on occasion was even used for cleaning out dirty ears and as a hand towel.

For sleeping kids her lap was the mattress and her pallu the warm cover.

When company came, the ideal hiding for the shy kids were the saree pallus… And when going out as little kids the pallu became an anchor, a guide to follow the Mom in the big, bad world.

And when the weather was cold, Ma wrapped it around her arms.

Those glorious sari pallus wiped many a perspiring brow. It doubled as her apron too.

From the garden, it carried all sorts of vegetables and sweet scented flowers that had fallen from the trees.

When unexpected company drove up the road, it was surprising how much furniture that old saree pallu could dust in a matter of seconds. It also carried so many toys as a proper basket.

It has been a long time before someone invents something that will replace that old time sari pallu that served so many purposes. The pallu is nothing but magic woven. And know what this pallu carried….I don’t think I ever caught anything from my Mom’s pallu but Love.

Dad wrote, “Your Mom was full of emotions after reading it and could co-relate to many a thing she had experienced when she was a kid and am sure you too will feel the same about some of the magic the pallu is able to weave.” Yes, the message did get me nostalgic and I remembered my experiences with Ma’s pallu, but then a question struck me, “Ma had a pallu which did so much to me while growing up, how will I remember Baba who didn’t have one?”

I started browsing through the photo gallery on my phone and found a picture of Baba in a saree which Ma had sent on Whatsapp a few months back!!! Since I was far away in Delhi and a college function was forthcoming where I had to wear a saree, Baba practised under Ma’s expert guidance the fine art of wearing the full six yards to be able to help me wear it well.

No! This is not how I will remember him. I ransacked the almirah and pulled out old photo albums with our pictures together. I remembered the drawer at home where Ma had preserved all the birthday cards and small notes on hand made paper I had written to Baba with my tiny hands long ago, my art books and craft work. As I sat browsing through pieces of our lives lying scattered all round me I realized that I will remember him as so much more that it is difficult to pen in a single blog….and so I jotted down a few of my stray fond memories that kept coming to me without much trying… for it was all real, I had experienced it, I had lived every moment of it.

My Daddy’s Loving Arms

My first picture with my Dad is sitting atop his shoulders and laughing, just like a bird atop a branch singing a sweet note. Yes, my father’s arms are like the branches of a tree. I know this tree stands tall and gives me shelter in rain and snow. For me this tree is evergreen and not seasonal and its leaves will always be green, fruits sweet and branches gentle.

This tree stands there whenever I open my eyes. First it was to go to the school. We never had a car in those days but he was there everyday to pick me up in his arms and walk me to the bus stop. And this was no ordinary walk for this was the time when the branch holding me close would narrate some of the best extempore stories of my friends and heroes Salman, Rahul Dravid and the like. 

These arms taught me everything beyond books like riding my first bicycle. He would hold it tight when I started my rides, running beside me and gradually his arms loosened as I got better and confident of riding freely. He would rush to pick me up in his arms when I fell down and put me back on the seat.

These arms gave me the confidence to take to the water I was so afraid of.  He held me in his arms, never letting go, taught me swimming so lovingly that soon I was able to swim the breadth of the pool first and then the length. Till date I don’t remember having entered the pool without him around for those arms give me the floats I never have used.

My Daddy’s arms would toil with me on my craft projects and summer projects. He always could make me do things in a different and creative way that the end result would often be quite spectacular. I still remember the fancy dress costumes that he made. From Munna doodhwala and Merlin the Magician to Mr. Vajpayee, he could transform me into almost anyone.

While there was this driving instructor who got me my driving licence, but it was my Daddy’s arms that held the emergency brake and gently helped me steer the wheel as I graduated from a learner to a driver who could manoeuvre the streets of Mumbai.

These were the hands that wove their magic with words and helped me with all my elocution, debates and fuelled my imagination and inspired me to write.

His arms and fingers gave me some of the best chumpi (head massage).

When my Board results came out, he hugged me and then lifted me high and then swirled round and round forgetting that I was no longer a baby who weighed ten kilos. He never complained that it led to the recurrence of his back problem.

My Daddy’s arms carry numerous dabbas from home filled with food and they experiment with new recipes each time he visits me in Delhi from Biryani to fish moily.

Even after all these years, when I walk beside him, I unconsciously end up holding his hands like I used to as a kid, a firm, reassuring grasp.

It has been a long time before the Creator creates something that will replace a father’s arms that served so many purposes. The arms are nothing but magic woven. And I know what these arms carried…I don’t think I ever caught anything from my Dad’s arms but Love. And I know these loving arms are my biggest safety ring in this world full of uncertainty and fear.

Life is made up of these things…a mother’s saree pallu, a father’s protective arms…unconditional love is hidden in these small everyday things. Nothing else matters at the end of the day. When you take away all the coarseness, unpleasantness and the grotesque from life, what remains is a mother’s pallu, a father’s loving arms, a partner’s immense patience or a child’s unconditional trust. That is what ultimately matters in life. Not the laurels earned or the targets achieved; not the meanness or hatred all around. It remains hidden in an old stainless steel bowl or an enameled mug; in a hurriedly created fancy dress costume or a discarded old kantha; a rusted bicycle or a much used durrie…a loved one lives in all these things.

MS