Mangamma,

 the  karmayogi  (????  –  mid-­‐1980s)  

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  front  gate.  A  woman  crying  and  speaking  at  the  same  time.  I,  
then  a  1970s  high  school  student,  rushed  to  the  living  room  to  look  out  to  see  who  it  was  
and  what  was  going  on.    
Just  at  the  same  moment  as  amma  rushed  out  of  the  kitchen.  
The  woman  at  the  gate  was  Kamala.  Amma  rushed  to  the  front  door  to  ask  what  had  
happened.  In  between  sobs  and  convulsive  crying,  Kamala  said,  “My  anna  (older  brother)  
has  died  and  they  have  brought  the  body  to  the  village.  Is  my  mother  here?”  
“The  village”  was  Yediyuru,  adjacent  to  what  we  call  6th  block,  Jayanagar,  Bangalore.  My  
mother,  herself  having  lost  a  son  and  never  fully  recovered  from  it,  freaked  out.  “Yes,  she  is  
in  the  backyard  near  the  washing  stone.”    
Saying  this,  she  rushed  through  the  house  to  the  backyard,  me  rushing  after  her.  Kamala  
came  round  the  house.    
There  was  Kamala’s  mother  Mangamma  (a  variation  of  the  name  Alamelumangamma,  the  
consort  of  Sri  Venkateshvara),  sitting  on  the  ground,  near  the  tap,  washing  dishes  and  
putting  the  washed  dishes  into  the  wicker  basket  that  would  later  be  kept  in  the  sun  for  
the  vessels  to  dry.    
Kamala  and  amma,  were  talking  simultaneously,  the  former  sobbing  and  the  latter  very  
nearly  so.  Mangamma  looks  up  at  both  of  them  and  asks,  “What  happened?”  
Kamala  told  her.  This  time,  adding  a  little  more  information.  Brother  had  gone  to  the  fields  
to  answer  the  call  of  nature,  been  bitten  by  a  cobra,  and  died  of  the  venom.  She  asked  
Mangamma  to  come  rushing  NOW!  
Mangamma  showed  no  panic,  no  emotion  even.  She  told  her,  “Is  that  right?  You  go  back.  I’ll  
finish  these  dishes  and  come  there.”  Kamala  cried  again.  My  mother  yelled  at  Mangamma,  
“Did  you  hear  what  she  told  you  or  not?  Are  you  mad?  Your  son  is  dead!  GO!”  
Mangamma  said,  with  calmness  the  like  of  which  I  have  not  seen  before  nor  after,  “Will  
both  you  just  shush?  He  is  dead.  If  I  drop  everything  and  rush  there  this  instant,  will  he  
come  back  to  life?  Nothing  is  going  to  change  in  just  20  minutes!  So,  just  be  quiet,  both  of  
you!”  
Kamala  had  no  choice.  Sobbing,  she  fled  back.  Amma,  completely  chastised,  returned  
indoors  cursing  Mangamma  for  being  heartless  and  obsessing  with  those  damn  dishes…  
In  due  course,  Mangamma  reported  the  dishes  done  and  that  she  was  heading  out  now.  
Amma,  still  fuming  at  her,  said,  “Go!  And  don’t  come  back  for  another  month.  We  can  
manage.  Listen  to  me.  I  have  also  lost  a  son  in  my  life.”  
Mangamma  just  looked  at  her  and  walked  away.    
Unhurried.  Her  usual  speed.    
This  whole  scene  is  recorded  in  slo-­‐mo  in  my  mind.  Whenever  I  remember  it,  it  goes  at  slo-­‐
mo.  
Mangamma  was  back  at  work  four  or  five  days  later.  “If  I  sit  at  home,  the  mind  will  dwell  
on  things  that  make  me  unhappy.  If  I  am  working,  it  will  be  all  right.  What  will  I  do  sitting  
at  home?  Why  mope?  He’s  gone  –  he’s  gone.  That’s  it.  Get  those  dishes  out,  I’ll  wash  them.”  
 
Mangamma  was  of  indeterminate  age.  We  really  didn’t  know  her  origins,  but  always  just  
presumed  she  was  Yediyuru,  a  village  a  few  minutes’  walk  from  where  we  lived  –  6th  Block,  
Jayanagar.  One  of  the  villages  that  got  engulfed  by  Bangalore’s  amoeboid  growth.  
For  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  she  was  of  the  same  age.  She  and  mother  were  thick  as  
thieves.  But  they  fought  …  hot  words  would  be  exchanged  and  one  or  the  other  would  
swear  never  to  deal  with  the  other.  Two  days  …  three,  max.  They  were  back  to  their  old  
ways.    
Telugu  was  Mangamma’s  mother  
tongue.  Appa  spoke  it  fluently.  So,  they  
would  converse  at  length  in  Telugu.  
Kannada  was  the  medium  for  her  
conversation  with  amma.  Amma  for  all  
the  decades  she  had  lived  in  
Bangalore,  never  lost  the  Tamizh  
inflexions  and  lack  of  regard  for  one-­‐
letter-­‐differences  that  would,  in  
Kannada,  completely  change  the  
meaning  of  a  word.  Whenever  I  tried  
to  point  out  to  her  the  difference,  she  
would  just  shush  me  and  tell  me  to  go  
on  my  way.    
Mangamma  and  my  parents  had  a  lot  
of  respect  for  her.  Mangamma,  among  
other  things,  once  told  my  parents  that  
they  were  the  only  ones  who  
addressed  her  by  her  name.  The  rest  of  
our  family  did  so,  too.  Everyone  else  
called  her  “mudukamma”  (old  
woman).  This  was  a  major  point  for  
her.  
My  parents  admired  and  liked  her  
Karmayogi  Mangamma  (1983)  
because  of  the  way  she  actually  lived  
the  Bhagavad-­‐geetaa.  Here  is  an  
example.  Next  door  neighbor  would  ask  Mangamma  to  substitute  for  the  regular  maid  who  
was  away  on  leave  for  a  week.  Mangamma  and  this  neighbor  fought  all  the  time,  too,  but  
old  ties  and  all  that,  they  muddled  along.  No  permanent  enemies  in  life,  as  in  politics.    
She  would  work  for  the  neighbor  doing  all  the  work  that  the  regular  (and  much  younger)  
maid  would  do  for  the  duration.  Then,  for  days,  the  neighbor  would  look  for  Mangamma  to  
give  her  money  for  the  work  she  had  done.  Somehow  or  other  she  would  miss  meeting  
Mangamma  while  the  latter  was  working  at  our  home  …  daily!    
Amma  would  tell  Mangamma  that  neighbor  was  looking  for  her  to  give  her  money.  
Mangamma’s  response?  “Yeah,  yeah.  I’ll  go  and  get  it.  Where  is  she  going  to  run  away?  
Where  is  the  money  going  to  run  away?”  
This  attitude  to  work  earned  her  the  epithet,  “Karmayogi”  in  our  family.  We  actually  used  
to  refer  to  her  as  karmayogi  Mangamma.  
One  of  my  brothers,  the  late  gun-­‐throat  Gagi,  used  to  always  banter  with  her.  She  always  
gave  it  back  as  good  as  she  got  it.  Their  dialogues  were  always  fun.  The  same  with  appa  
and  her.  She  would  often  have  appa  in  giggling  fits,  with  amma  not  far  behind.  
Sibling  squabbles?  She  would  boldly  intervene  and  tell  us  to  cheese  it!  And  we  used  to.  
Particularly  between  aforementioned  gun-­‐throat  and  self.  
She  helped  raise  two  nephews  and  a  niece  of  mine.  During  holidays,  when  she  came  home  
to  sweep  and  mop,  I  would  be  sitting  by  myself  doing  whatever.  She  would  say,  “You  are  
sitting  idle.  Sing  something.  I  can  listen  to  it  while  I  work  and  I  won’t  feel  tired.”  
Immediately,  amma  would  shout  from  the  kitchen,  “You  keep  quiet!  If  he  starts,  he  won’t  
stop!  It’s  tough  enough  to  keep  him  quiet!”  
Yes,  Mangamma  was  the  only  member  of  my  fan  club;  founder,  president,  secretary,  
treasurer,  AND  member.  Amma  was  on-­‐again-­‐off-­‐again  member.  There  were  never  any  
other  members;  never  have  been  since.  
She  had  developed  cataract  over  the  years.  Appa  and  amma  used  to  warn  us  to  keep  things  
sorted,  don’t  let  anything  important  lie  about  …  she  couldn’t  make  out  what  it  was  and  may  
just  sweep  it  away  with  the  dust.    
Amma  used  to  tell  her  to  just  quit  working,  go  and  live  with  the  other  son.  She  could,  of  
course,  come  and  hang  around  and  spend  time  with  the  people  in  our  street  whom  she  
knew.  Even  have  a  meal  and  some  coffee  at  our  place.  Mangamma’s  response:  “No  way!  As  
long  as  I  can,  I  will  work  and  earn  my  living.  If  I  live  with  him,  I’ll  become  dependent  on  
him.  If  I  want  even  a  few  betel  nuts,  betel  leaves,  some  chunnaam,  or  a  wad  of  tobacco  I’ll  
have  to  ask  him  for  money.  It  won’t  be  the  same  forever.  One  day  or  another,  he’ll  say  ‘no’  –  
then  what  would  I  do?  Even  if  he  doesn’t,  his  wife  may  object.  No!  I  will  keep  my  distant  
and  their  respect.  As  long  as  I  can  work,  I  will.  You  stop  telling  me  to  do  this!  Now,  give  me  
some  coffee.”  
This,  too,  added  to  our  respect  for  this  woman.    
She  passed  away  in  the  mid-­‐to-­‐late  1980s  while  I  lived  away  from  the  country.  My  family  
had  moved  to  different  parts  of  Bangalore.  Appa  and  amma  had  lost  most  of  their  contacts  
with  the  old  neighborhood.  No  one  seems  to  have  kept  her  history.  I  must  go  and  try  to  
unearth  it  one  of  these  days.  
But  Karmayogi  Mangamma’s  history  in  my  mind  is  always  one  that  I  cherish.  
Not  least  for  being  the  only  fan  of  my  “singing.”  ☺  
-­‐ Chandra  Shekhar  Balachandran  
Bangalore,  26  December  2013