To Ija

In Pahari, the language of the hill people of Kumaon, Ija means mother. Yet, we, her grandchildren, called her Ija, too. She was mother not ...

In Pahari, the language of the hill people of Kumaon, Ija means mother. Yet, we, her grandchildren, called her Ija, too. She was mother not only to her children, but also to an entire household populated with their wives, their children and now even their children8217;s children. And then there was 8212; they can neither be forgotten nor dismissed in a footnote 8212; the succession of dogs that roamed around the house at Bhimtal.

Ija came to Bhimtal when her husband, Bishnu Dutt Pant, took premature retirement from his job at Delhi and with children, bag and baggage left for the somnolent village in the Kumaon hills that would forever be referred to in terms of its far more famous cousin, the town of Nainital.

Ija and Kakaji it is a respectful term for the more informal chacha; but we called him that since we were picking up names with which the elders were being addressed built a house and got on with it. In Kakaji8217;s case, this meant getting up late; having a bath when water kept aside in a bucket for him had warmed up; generally employing himself for the welfare of people and managing to take a keen interest in drama, singing and the autumn season of fun and festivity at Nainital.

Ija, meanwhile, took care of concrete reality: running the house, taking care of the budget and the children, seeing to the guests8230; She used to get up very early. I would often rub sleep out of my eyes to the sound of her morning aarti. Or she8217;d let me stand at the kitchen door and wait for the milkman.

For me, a small kid, Ija was someone you could always go to when you were hungry. She made wonderful besan ke ladoos, which could be eaten hot only in slightly chilly Bhimtal. She could shield you from people about to get unpleasantly angry. She never raised her voice, because she never needed to. In contrast, since I could get incredibly angry, she told me, in the only piece of advice I remember getting from her, to spit out my anger. I am trying.

Indeed, Ija will be remembered for what she managed to make out of her children. It was not just that she was industrious 8212; till the age of 92, she could still do all personal work by her own hand 8212; she was able to mould a household into one unit. She nursed it into strength and sweetness, lent it hospitality, charm and stolidity.

When she passed away, 12 days ago, an era ended.

The devotion to motherhood she so effortlessly inspired continues. Now, the household8217;s mothers and aunts are Ija, eliciting our love, commanding our respect. Ija, in that sense, is very much there.

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All that I and we need now Ija, Mother, is your blessing. So that the house continues in unity, in prosperity, and in love. Bye, Ija.