AUNT TO THE WORLD

(Short-story)

RAMESHWAR TANTIA

Chandari Bua–or Aunt Chandari–was born in a village in the former Bikaner princely state of Rajasthan. She was a Brahmin by caste.

Those were days, ages ago, when tradition and custom ruled India. No girl was married to a boy of the same village, and every woman of the village was a niece, an aunt or some other “relation” of the whole village and called as such. The men were similarly regarded as nephews or uncles. I remember well that members of a Muslim family in my village were cousins, uncles and aunts to us.

Consequent on this tradition of treating the whole village as a joint family, weddings were not the burden on the parents that they are now. Chandari Bua’s father was a Brahmin of ordinary means, but the weddings in his family as in all others were an occasion for the whole village to help. Women from all families would come to do all the household work. Each family would bring a rupee or two for “tika”, which was a kind of contribution to the expenses of the wedding.

Chandari Bua was married at the age of 12. The wedding was celebrated with great fanfare. “Gauna” was a ceremony which took place three or five years after the wedding, and it was only after “gauna” that a girl went to her in-laws. Unfortunately, there could be no “gauna” for Chandari Bua because her husband died soon after marriage. So Chandari Bua never went to her in-laws and continued to live with her parents, a child widow.

By the time I came to know her, she was old enough to be called Bua or aunt. Her parents had died and she was now Bua to the whole village.

Though a Brahmin, Chandari Bua disliked living on alms. She preferred to work for a living and every day, from four in the morning to dawn, would grind 8 to 10 seers of foodgrains. This would bring her two to two-and-a-half annas which was enough for her meagre needs. Nor had she any dearth of work, for her grinding was clean and she would not steal any atta as some others did.

Every morning when I got up I would hear the sound of Chandari Bua grinding grain. In fact, since alarm clocks were rare in those days, anybody wanting to get up early to catch a train or for any other purpose, would simply tell Chandari Bua to wake him up.

After the morning’s work to earn a living, Chandari Bua would devote the whole of the day looking after neighbour’s children. If anybody fell ill, she would attend on him, and at every occasion when a woman in the area had a baby, Chandari Bua’s presence would take the load and worry off everybody’s head. She poured all of her love on others, pasting the torn kite of one child or helping with the wedding of the doll of another, I never saw anyone return disappointed from her door.

Chandari Bua had no training in music, yet she was a natural singer. In accordance with custom she as a widow did not sing wedding songs, but she had no peer in singing devotional songs. Specially she sang the devotional poems of Mira Bai and Surdas with great feeling.

Years passed and Chandari Bua became too old to grind grain. Still she continued to do odd jobs to earn a living. Her hands and neck shook and the voice became unsteady. Every year people from the village went on pilgrimage to Hardwar and Badrikashram, and requested Chandari Bua to accompany them, but invariably her reply would be that such pious deeds were not for an unfortunate one like her.

One day she called me and said: “My health is failing and I don’t know when I may be no more. I have long pined to dig a well in the village of my husband. It has only one well and in the summer not only animals but men and women do not get enough water from it. Will you please find out for me how much it would take to dig a well?”

I thought that the old woman had gone crazy, for she was hardly able to earn enough for a living and was thinking of taking on this arduous job.

Ten or twelve days passed, and I forgot about the request. But one day Chandari Bua came to my house supporting herself on her staff. I felt guilty, for since childhood I had made

Chandari Bua do many odd jobs and made her tell me stories late into the night. She had made one small request to me and I had not even thought of complying with it.

Still, Chandari Bua had come and I had to give her a reply. Offhand I told her that the water table in her husband’s village was very low and that a good, deep well would mean an expenditure of about two-and-a-half thousand rupees. Even a shallow well would need about a thousand and five hundred.

Chandari Bua’s wrinkled face became sad. She seemed to start calculating silently, then requested me to come to her the next day, and left.

Next morning I went and found that she was waiting for me. She looked round, then went into her house and brought a small box from under her bed. It had coins from the days of Queen Victoria, King Edward and King George V, plus lots and lots of change. There were a few silver ornaments and a small gold idol which perhaps her mother had given her at her wedding.

I started counting the money, and Chandari Bua’s life of the last 60 or 70 years passed before my eyes. This was the life’s savings of this old woman, and to save it for digging a well in her husband’s village, she had suppressed her desire even to go on a pilgrimage. Now, in the evening of life, when she was not even able to earn enough for a living, she was willing to spend it all in public service.

I finished counting. It was nine hundred rupees, plus three hundred rupees worth of ornaments. That would be enough, I explained, and if some more was needed it could be arranged. But she exclaimed: “This will not do. The well will be dug in memory of your uncle and I cannot accept contributions for it. If necessary, I shall employ one labourer less and work myself.” As the plans were finished, I asked whose name would be etched on the stone on top of the well. Dilating her weak eyes, Chandari Bua replied, “An attempt to claim credit reduces the piety of the act. In any case, since man himself is mortal, how does his name matter?”

The logic was devastating and convincing. Yet, it was also true that she had staked her all for this work of social service and was yet unwilling to claim credit for herself or her husband. This was a contrast from the common situation of rich and educated people vying with each other to get buildings and institutions named after themselves or their kin, or of scrambles for laying foundation-stones and making inaugurations.

Some months later I visited the village and found labourers working on digging the well–with Chandari Bua one of them, Her devotion and hard work inspired others. Someone remarked: “Chandari Bua, your well has yielded very sweet water, but you will not live long to drink it,” to which she replied: “What is mine in this well? I earned the money from the people and have spent it for the people. Besides, I drank water from others’ well all my life and am now trying to repay the debt. It is my wish that when I die, water from this well, instead of the holy Ganga, should be put into my mouth.”

The well was completed but Chandari Bua was by then exhausted. She fell ill, and the day the ceremonial “puja” for the completion of the well was performed she was only semi-conscious. A large number of people from nearby villages had collected and prayers and kirtan went on till very late. Then, before the eyes of the assembled people, Chandari Bua died.

The village has now blossomed into a township and there are several wells in it, but water from Chandari Bua’s well is the sweetest.

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