Mendok is the japanese word for trouble. Trouble-maker is what the world is. And this is what my granny believed. Like all other grannies I had pigeonholed her as a sweet, story-telling old soul. I couldn't be further from the truth. Beacuse she wielded a sort of wit that often sliced through all topsy-turviness in a manner as a katana would slice through butter. She looked more frail than any other creature I had ever seen. But the minute, that wit of hers ensnared me, I stood enlightened. That toothless smile, that maimed laugh, painted a picture. A picture of the world languishing in fetters, stuck in the vines of confusion. And my granny floating somewhere in the distance, smiling away. And if I allowed the granny in the picture to speak, I knew what she might say.
'Ahh! People! You can't walk your path, which your mother taught you fully well. If there are ten swamps and 100 crocodiles in each, you will still be as shiny and plump as my Brinda in the shed. But you people see others. Their swamps look like bright paddy fields. And you charge like a bull, break your fence and end up the way you are.'
Why was granny this way? Why couldn't she just leave the lemons in the sun to be pickled, tell stories about kings and queens to the obliging infants, chant a few prayers a day and maybe even groan about the inevitable a few times? To tell the truth, she did do those things. But that was because of the tugs of her abrupt whims. The same whims which also led her to set the cows in the shed free, to convince the man-servant Madru that his wife was cheating on him, and then curse herself for having done these things. And these more unusual actions eclipsed the normal 'granny behaviour'. People who came under her spitfire said, 'Her old man is gone. The poor thing is demented. Hence we must quench our tempers and not retaliate.' A few had also suggested that the demises of grandpa and her brother, one after another, were too much for her. And to cope up with all the distress she had conjured up her own little wonderland. Seeing the world through her own eyes, she rationalized everything with her self-made principles. As weirdly similar to a pshycological syndrome that may sound like, I for one thought, it could be true. However, the flash of rational ingenuity sported in those 'principles' was that, which had amazed me. But many a men in the village of Badchana saw things differently. The wisdom with the usual garnish of sarcasm was just rude behaviour for them.
Granny was usually reticent. Her sword remained well-sheathed during fights with grandpa. My mom once held her hand and said, 'Do you miss him?'
'Who? My old man? He got what he deserved...'
'Don't say such things. He was...'
'Ahh! You people! The chap was lucky. Mankind is a big swarm of fruitflies. They have barged into Bhagavan's house to nibble at Dharti, the fruit. Now, Bhagavan has lit a fly-killer coil in a corner. Each fly must die slowly with time. But he is also impatient and is swatting the flies angrily. The lucky ones die in a snap. The less lucky ones wither away slowly. My old man was a honest little man. That accident was just as kind as Bhagavan could be.'
My pious mom has doubts on granny's sanity to this day.
Granny's reticence got ruptured at times. I could never predict the same. I had seen senseless people yapping around senseless things just making her go to sleep. And again, in less provocative times, the gates would open. One such occassion was the village "Satsang". The fuse was a man from the town; the spark was something he said about judging friends. ('Judging who is your friend, is very important. Friendship is like nectar...')
She got up. Some sighed, a few hissed and cursed under their breath. 'Ahh! You people! Kalia here is our shepherd. The sheep are like his children. Yet one of them today, kicked him in the eye. He is all scarred and now looks like Kalia, the street dog. If a bullock-cart never asks you a coin for the ride, go see if your wide smells of bull-hide. But even if a good deed has no motive, its still just an impulse. Impulse can repeat, making us drink the venom of trust. Having trust is like walking on rope. You walk a hand's length; you think that you can also walk the rest. You term the journey friendship. You obviously fall in a step or two and call it betrayal. Ahh! People!' These memories are clear in my head. They obscure more important things. For example, granny getting cancer, granny getting hospitalized and then granny dying. The day of her funeral is what I vaguely remember.
A garland of chinaroses adorned a picture of granny. A few people around were sobbing. Amidst all this, my father got up. He walked to the corpse and sighed. He spoke, 'Friends! My mother was a very kind woman, with the heart of an angel...'
I could swear, I heard the picture speak, 'Ahh! People...'
