MY DEAR MOTHER FIGURE – My Tai

MY DEAR MOTHER FIGURE – My Tai
By Sonali Bhatia

She joined my maternal grandmother (Nani-ma)’s service before my mother got married. In designation, she was a maid-servant. In practical terms, she was the pivot of the household. And emotionally, she was the most precious person anyone could hope to know.
Which is why, when my mother, the eldest of four daughters, got engaged and was asked by her mother what she wanted as a wedding gift, she chose the maid-servant over jewellery or sarees. Her sisters protested, but it was no use. The maid servant moved with my mother after my parents married.
When I was born, she looked after me, doing the mundane chores of ‘changing’ and bathing. We bonded – and when Mom scolded me, she took my side.
When I was two years old, my Nani-ma taught me to dial her phone number, in case of emergency. I didn’t know numbers yet, but she made me learn by heart how to dial hers on the round-dial instrument.
One day, she got a phone call from a two-and-a-half year old me. It was an emergency, I said. Alarmed, she asked what the emergency was. “Are you going to take the maid servant back?” I demanded. “No, she’s your maid,” my Nani-ma reassured me.
Five minutes later, she got another call from my mother. Apparently, I had been kicking the maid-servant and hitting her in a temper tantrum, and my mother had threatened to send her back to Nani-ma if I didn’t behave. Having got the reassurance that the maid would not be taken back, I had resumed throwing a tantrum and kicking her.
As I grew and went to school, she pampered me. She was illiterate herself (though my family attempted to teach her to read and write) but kept my books in order. She pampered my friends, too, cooking up snacks for them when they came to visit.
When TV came to India, my parents decided we wouldn’t own one – all of us didn’t need to spoil our already myopic eyes. The maid was disappointed, she would now have to watch her favourite CHHAYAGEET (a weekly show of film songs) at the neighbour’s house on Thursday evenings. This meant being obligated to the neigbour’s maid, on whose territory she was trespassing.
So, when my mother (a teacher) was in charge of the props for a school-play, and one of the props was a mock-TV, the maid helped cut the cardboard carton and glue the cellophane and thermocol on to it with gusto. “We have a TV now,” she exulted, “I can watch CHHAYAGEET at home.” She was bitterly disappointed to know that a cardboard carton would not show her the much-loved TV show!
When we shifted to Bangalore from Mumbai, she came with us, leaving her son, daughter-in-law and three grandkids behind. She visited them for two months every two years. All of us (Mom, Dad, I) went to the railway station to drop her and pick her up. Invariably, she would make friends on the train, during the 24-hour journey to Mumbai and on the return journey as well.
When the ‘Miss World’ pageant came to Bangalore, I entered a slogan contest and won a ticket to see the show. The maid could not understand what the fuss was about. I showed her the newspaper and the photos of the Miss World contestants, saying they were coming from various countries and I had won a ticket to see them.
She gazed at the photos – and said, ‘You beat all these girls?’ I chuckled to think that at least one person believed that I could win Miss World!
She, herself, was my personal Miss World and Miss Universe – the sweetest, loveliest mother figure anyone could have.