Till death did them part...

Till death do us part…
“Why are women dissatisfied” scream headlines of a newspaper read everyday in thousands of homes! There are quotes from studies in the UK and the USA, which go on to explain that love is no longer a feeling to be cherished. Women are earning and contributing equally to their households, and expectations from their relationships are necessarily determined by these new-found freedoms- freedom to work, freedom to earn and freedom to express. Little do these studies address the issue of love as a feeling that keeps the companions satisfied with two morsels of food or warm in one less garment. These studies focus even less on the warmth of family homes and clans that India revered just a few decades ago.

Love is not a feeling to be ‘expected’ and demanded. It is a feeling to be lived and experienced. I am convinced my grandparents’ saga is not unique but it bears telling in these days of selfish self-centred demanding mates!

9 th of March, 1987… it has been more than two decades ago… but the scene is still as if a movie is playing on a screen and I am watching it- my grandmother’s head in my grandfather’s lap with death, peace and love so thick in the air one could touch the curtain and feel the cold and the warmth of the fibre.

My grandmother was a woman of the royal family of Kapurthala in Punjab, married to an ordinary college professor of Lahore, then in India. The story starts long ago in early nineteen hundreds. My grandfather was born in a rich merchant family with acres of orchards and uncountable money. However, soon after his birth, his mother caught an illness they could do nothing about. The times were not good and all the money could not save my grandfather’s mother. This was, perhaps the unconscious memory that made money the least important thing in his life. Gyan Chand Soni. Literally translated, his name stood for the gentle light of knowledge. It is said in the Hindu scriptures that the two sisters, Saraswati- the goddess of Knowledge and Laxmi, the goddess of Wealth do not stay together under the safe roof! The early events of his life dictated a very strong personality and an almost pathological disregard for money.

His father contracted tuberculosis when he was about to start college. Shunned by the elder brothers, he was left alone to look after his ailing father and even had to physically carry him to the hospital on certain days. Unable to tolerate the misery his father was in, he decided to study to become a doctor- a decision that would take him overseas to some great institution of learning in the British Empire. Fate, however, intervened again! Mahatama Gandhi launched the Swadeshi Movement and my grandfather gave up his plans to study Medicine in UK and took up an ordinary teacher’s job in the FC College.

It gave him enough to run his family and the shared income of the orchards was adequate to tide over occasional hardships. It was in these climes that he was introduced to the Princess of Kapurthala – Janak, my grandmother.

They got married in early nineteen twenties- she a young girl of seventeen or eighteen and he, nearly ten years older at twenty seven. Not a penny in dowry did this self-respecting man accept. The first set of plates and the spoons to go with these… the first set of cups and saucers. The beddings and the pillows, the clothes for themselves- everything was built with love and care.

Janak soon conceived. Their first- born was a daughter- frail in body and not very resilient, this child soon succumbed to nature’s forces. The couple was shattered. They had taken on the responsibility of not only looking after my grandfather’s foster mother but also the ailing father. The pain mellowed a bit but never really went away completely. They soon conceived another child- again a girl. My grandmother looked after this child and guarded her like a tigress. This girl grew up into a brilliant lady- elegant and the first one to live the destiny my grandfather had rejected decades ago- she became a doctor from the Lady Hardinge Medical College in Delhi and went on to do her specialization from UK earning for herself the FRCS. There were others- three sons and one more daughter.

The children used to come to Kapurthala each vacation from Lahore and my grandmother used to spend some time in the royal palaces being pampered and looked after. My grandfather would often finish the college work and at the onset of the vacations join her in Kapurthala for a couple of weeks. In the summer of 1947, with seven children in tow- the youngest, my father being just seven, my grandmother came to Kapurthala again. This once she was apprehensive. She did not want to leave Lahore without her husband.

The situation was tense and the debate on Indo- Pak division was hot. The politicians were playing a dirty and dangerous game. My grandfather forbade my grandmother from coming back to Lahore and promised her he would join them soon. She spent days in agonizing wait and anxiety- all the money, the jewellery, the utensils and the clothes would be lost. How would they start their life again? Could they? As a self-fulfilling prophesy, people started dying- beheaded bodies started arriving in trainfulls. The blood and the hatred were unbearable. The anger was like a volcano- killing everything that came in its way. My grandmother only wanted her husband to join them safely- no material possessions were important. She moved towards Delhi as he had ordered. He joined them. The homecoming was momentous. The government gave the ‘refugees’ land to rebuild their homes and lives. My grandfather joined the Hindu College as a professor of physics and physical education- a strange combination even in those days! Life started again- from scratch. Twigs to rebuild their nest… rags to rebuild their riches. They were a resilient couple, as were a lot of other ‘refugees’. All children used to visit my home all summer vacations. My Grandmother was the grand Matriarch- Seth (A rich woman) and my grand father was always (Soni- his last name).

She sat as regally as a queen would with both her feet firmly on earth and head held high in total confidence of her power. She talked as clearly as a queen would with every word and every sentence telling a saga of a life of devotion to her clan.

Soon, however, the ravages of time and age began to take their toll on her fragile frame. Her diabetes was going out of control and had started affecting her kidneys and her heart. Her high blood- pressure was dealing a double whammy to her already failing systems. As an 11 year old, I had to accompany her to the hospital to decide whether she would be put on Dialysis. I remember her words- “I will not lie down with tubes and needles. No dialysis. I want to die with dignity at home”. Such was her strength and resolve that none could oppose her.

She started behaving somewhat awkwardly- spitting in the sitting room and eating at inappropriate times. My grandfather rallied all his strength to look after her. The rising blood urea was entering her brain and making her delirious. Her clothes started hanging on the skeleton she had become. She was now just skin and bones. It was heartbreaking to see this pillar of our household crumbling. Sometimes, it was embarrassing, too. We could not get through to her- she would not understand. When we felt angry she would shrink as if we had hit her physically. How could a strong willed woman crumble so?

However, on the ninth of March, 1987, she became suddenly lucid. It was half past ten at night. Her entire family had gathered for the inevitable. She was sinking- unable to maintain blood pressure and heart beat. Her brain was clear for the first time in two years! She called her husband and told him,” Soni, I am going… I want you to hold my hand” Even as I write these words, I find my hair standing on ends- a strange electricity running through the back of my neck on to my temples… Her head in my grandfather’s lap, her hand in his, she recollected her entire life in that last half hour with only me as her witness. At eleven, my grandfather gently told me to call the entire family to the bedside- “your grandmother is no more”.

I did not cry- she had set a powerful example of love and service to the family… this deserved a lot more than a few tears shed, dry and forgotten. I decided as a tender sixteen, I would marry only if I could find the same (not similar… but SAME) feeling of loving and being loved. I pray to God my Grandmother eventually found her peace… I know from her final moments on earth it could not be otherwise.

Love has the power to transcend all and heal all.