Nagoo's story, like that of many others, remained mostly untold. (How much of a story she had, is again another question.) She belonged to a class that had little to know about, little to think about, much less to worry about. They worked and they lived. God came to them as work and god went to them as their daily bread.
Nobody knew how old she was. Not even she. Ask her (which few like me ever could because it was a touchy subject!), and she always gave the same "forty-fifty...?" (And at that time however, forty fifty was a sufficiently big to be convincing.)
And her family? and may be a husband? a couple of daughters? She had a son, alright.
She certainly had a son. Other than the movies she saw, her son was the one topic that made her very very talkative. They did some moulding and related work with brass, copper and zinc in the past. She often narrated the huge pojects (never anything bigger than cooking pots in brass or copper) that her family had carried out in the past, when her celebrated husband was alive. And her son was carrying on with the family trade. No doubt he was a real expert in the field, but with these "new silver" (read stainless steel) vessels taking over, he was making do with patch jobs like zinc plating. Other than her priceless son, she had only her poverty and the resulting simplicity to boast about. She and her class had no big demands on life, and so remained in a state where she can smile at the world. Whatever little was there in her life, and the very little that anyone knew about her life was not important to anyone including her. She was mostly happy, and angry once in a while. But that was all. Except for a short, curt word of diapproval of her daughter-in-law's behaviour, no one ever heard her complain, much less, become emotional.
She therefore, was more of a name. But what a name! Nagoo!
May be her full name was Nagalakshmi..
Nagalakshmi?
No! She was much more than a mere Nagalakshmi.
Then what?
Many many years after she left us, she seems most beautiful with part of her name untold.
And her story, mostly untold.
And that incomplete, seemingly meaningless name tells much of what I now need to know of her-story, and a little of history.
Our glorius history of denying to the oppressed and exploited everything, including a meaningful name. The important thing was that they must all posess a name short enough to be called out, loud and clear.
Our history.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Page 1. Of Course, She has a name!
For me too, like most others, life started somewhere around three - we are blissfully unaware of the helplessness of our infancies. The earliest comment I can remember about me is my mother telling someone.."He will be four in Medam" (April-May).
Realisation of my existence in terms of age, relationships and transactions therefore, started somewhere there for me - well after three. I knew I would some day be like my dad. But that someday wasn't worth the wait at that time, for, like most other ordinary kids, I never imagined going beyond say 5 or 6.
And from those days, the most prominent thing I can remember about me is the other name I had - "Sundiran".. the handsome.
She always referred to me as Sundiran. How far she meant it, god alone knew. But it certainly used to make me happy.
In fact, she herself always made me happy. More than half a century later, I remember her so distinctly. Few balck hairs scattered here and there, a mouth permanently scarred by betel leaves, a white dhoti, and a piece of cloth carefully spread over her otherwise uncovered breasts. And nobody knew how old she was. She bore an even smile, showing all those teeth, each of them in a different shade of red.
Her name was Nagoo. We, the kids called her Navoo.
Had she been alive today, I would love to sweep her up in my arms and may be, dance.
She is not the only one.There are so many, many others that I want to carry in my arms and strut around. All those people who knowingly or otherwise tried to make me a fuller being. My communion with happiness started with those simple men and women!
Realisation of my existence in terms of age, relationships and transactions therefore, started somewhere there for me - well after three. I knew I would some day be like my dad. But that someday wasn't worth the wait at that time, for, like most other ordinary kids, I never imagined going beyond say 5 or 6.
And from those days, the most prominent thing I can remember about me is the other name I had - "Sundiran".. the handsome.
She always referred to me as Sundiran. How far she meant it, god alone knew. But it certainly used to make me happy.
In fact, she herself always made me happy. More than half a century later, I remember her so distinctly. Few balck hairs scattered here and there, a mouth permanently scarred by betel leaves, a white dhoti, and a piece of cloth carefully spread over her otherwise uncovered breasts. And nobody knew how old she was. She bore an even smile, showing all those teeth, each of them in a different shade of red.
Her name was Nagoo. We, the kids called her Navoo.
Had she been alive today, I would love to sweep her up in my arms and may be, dance.
She is not the only one.There are so many, many others that I want to carry in my arms and strut around. All those people who knowingly or otherwise tried to make me a fuller being. My communion with happiness started with those simple men and women!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
