As virtuous men pass mildly away,

And whisper to their souls to go,

Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
-

Valediction Forbidding Mourning, John Donne

The Tree of Benediction

Whenever I rang the calling bell of the flat on the west on
the third floor of Bhusan House, my lips involuntarily broke into
a smile. It did not matter whether I had had an exhausting
working day at my school or whether I was in holiday mood. It
did not matter whether I was six or sixteen, whether it was
winter, summer or the monsoon what mattered was that Didi,
with a beaming smile, would answer the door. Didis smile was
infectious.
The house was a Land of Abundance, for Didi believed in
plenty. The scissors she used could have been used to prune
the most stubborn hedges. The supply of potato fries, Bashonti
polao, noodles, curd, curry, chutney and such other culinary
wonders that Didi brewed, always appeared endless. The
powder containers it always turned out that some entreating
salesman had been at the receiving end of Didis overpowering
kindness the powder containers would have sufficed a miserly
user six months. But Didi was no miser. I still remember Didi

attacking my childhood self with a powder puff on sultry

evenings.
Flooding memories cannot must not be checked. Didi
kept bound volumes of Amar Chitra Katha ready for me
whenever I visited, not to forget Big Hilda books. Later these
gave way to Classics and Asimov. But something was always
there and Didi, now I realise, was the juggernaut behind those
little somethings. On numerous occasions I stayed at Didis for
consecutive nights, often with my mother and sometimes my
sister too. We often joked that the arrangements Didi made
would have rivalled a five-star hotel. I know now that what I had
unknowingly got at P-286, Darga Road, was far beyond the
reach of poor little five-star hotels.
While in middle school, I could not help being amazed at
the variety of people who sought, and found, refuge under
Didis wing. I will not belittle Didi by considering financial
support, which she must have discreetly provided to many. She
helped students in any subject, from Physics to English
Literature one had to but ask her. She would dive, mind, heart
and soul into your problems if you showed the smallest sign of
needing help. She would see your problem through to its
resolution, and then retreat into the shadows. I will pass over
the fact that this attribute of Didis was often interpreted
incorrectly, resulting in curt rebukes. I will pass over the fact,
not because I want this piece to be pleasant which, as a
matter of fact, I do but because Didi herself was the epitome
of forgiveness.

Didis unwavering presence was the buttress behind my

uninterrupted schooling; on Bandh and Rally days, I would stay
with Didi, for the house was a few minutes walk away from my
school. From supplying water bottles to her grandson to
ferrying him home on days of unrest, Didi was a Guardian
Angel. Through the years, she proved herself equal to all kinds
of tasks: supplying me with a table lamp for my school science
project when Id forgotten to bring one, preparing tiffin for me
(in superfluous proportions, of course) in case of emergency,
reasoning with the Principal to excuse my absence if I fell sick
at school indeed, one of my Principals was so impressed by
her bearing and her confidence, that he even requested her to
assist the Physics Laboratory when she had free time. Didi,
mysteriously, had free time for everyone.
My parents, when I was a child, on one occasion had to
attend to some joint assignment at Bombay. I was a toddler
then, so Didi agreed to accompany us for the sole purpose of
tending to me while my parents were at work . I have distant
memories of building shelters for pigs just outside our Guest
House, and Didi building with me. Built out of twigs and
pebbles, these shelters were, needless to say, no architects
dream; but it was the whim of a four-year old boy that was
understood by a grandmother of sixty.
That is what Didi believed in and stood for. To her, no
shelter was too insignificant to build, no dreamer too small, no
vision too tough to attempt Didi was a Giver of Hope, a Tree of
Benediction whose vast spread sheltered all who sought refuge;
whose fruit dropped, as if on cue, into the laps of the hungry;

whose calm tenacity, when fires raged or squalls swept, was

often the lone reminder that the sun would rise again. Weep not
because this tree has been uprooted for the cool grass kisses
its crests, and the earth welcomes the tree back into its bosom.
A dirge, sung by all who ever knew the tree, wakens the
hitherto sleeping seeds that the tree has sent forth. Buds begin
to sprout. Wait in patience, for one day you will see this blessed
progeny in bloom. And the colours, I promise you, will not be
like anything you have ever seen.
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