Ever since I've known her, this reed-thin Maharashtrian lady perched on the doorstep of her ground floor flat all day, every day, entwined in a nine-yard cotton sari and watched the busy street outside the compound of her apartment complex.
And it really was her apartment complex. Her family members were one-time owners of the land on which the building now stood. Folded into an amazingly flexible, pretzel-like squat, she never missed a beat from her vantage point.
Initially, she wore glasses with square, black, plastic frames. As her sons grew more prosperous, her spectacle frames graduated to thin golden metal, and the last I saw, the frames disappeared altogether.
But frames or no, the eyes behind the thick lenses remained alert, kind and happy. Always happy. She greeted every soul that passed the gates with a lovely smile of one surviving tooth and a wide expanse of empty gums. Her head bobbed a friendly greeting to everyone, from a stray dog to the garbage lady.
Although she had a large extended family sharing her accommodation, she had exclusive rights on the front doorstep. It was her sole domain, and she reigned supreme. I never caught grandchildren on her lap or doting daughters or daughters-in-law sharing the step, either in rapt conversation or to dice vegetables.
Every tenant in the apartment building knew and loved the old lady as they stopped to chat on their way in or out. The rest of her family members were, to all extents, invisible. They existed in the netherworlds beyond the front door, hustling and bustling through their busy lives, but were not seen, known or missed. They were never really part of the equation.
Whenever I stayed in the apartment at irregular intervals in the past, she would lure me with those mesmerising lively eyes and pump me for information, in the most non-pushy way.
What was I doing? Studying? Working? Getting married? She was my walking, talking weighing machine. Need to cut down on the sugar intake, she said.
Or, "You've lost weight. Maybe you're working too hard." When she asked me how I was, it wasn't a rhetorical question. With her, it always seemed like genuine concern.
When she heard I was getting married, her congratulations and good wishes were peppered with sound advice. It doesn't matter how rich your husband is, she would tell me, "You must support yourself. You must work."
At the time, it amused me that a little old lady, who didn't seem literate, was totally dependent on her male relatives and never worked a day outside her home, should attach such importance to female financial independence. But then, what did I really know about her.
During the brief and busy days I spent later in the apartment, she would inquire about Dubai and my impressions. Her pearly black eyes seemed to hang on every word. She beamed her inimitable smile, and wished me well. That's how I'll always remember her vivacious, charming and with a thirst for knowledge.
A year ago, I stayed in the apartment. In the course of running errands, at some point I realised I had a nagging sensation that the place was different.
The old lady wasn't on her doorstep. With a sense of dread, I forced myself to ring her doorbell. A middle-aged woman answered, and I haltingly asked for her. "Ma-ji's not here. She's gone." My heart sank.
"She's staying with her son in Dubai."
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