REMINISCENCE OF AN UNRECIPROCATED ACT OF KINDNESS

She was always seen in a white saree, mostly with the pallav covering her head, like a true Kerala Muslim lady of those days (four decades back), quite unlike the ones with borrowed fundamentalism displayed today. She was the lady of the house of a rich aristocratic Muslim household in our village with huge land and properties.

Never had I seen sadness in her face, for I had seen her so many times, even when she lost her very dear grandson who was 2 years old. The face always showed equanimity, never indifference. It was a sweet, positive, fair face. It always showed a concern for others but never with an an emotional shadow. Her face and her attire had a sense of calmness around them; more for the benefit of the people around her, for it calmed them beyond reasons.

For a long duration of time, we were dependant on her. We called her “Umma” that's what Muslim children in our village addressed their mothers. She was indeed an eternal mother, Umma or Amma, whatever one called.

The complete supply of rice, coconut and firewood for our home came from her side, at a cost, of course. But it always used to be substantially lower than the market price. Every week practically one of us brothers would reach her house. We traveled not through the main route, but we criss-crossed through properties of others. Those properties were not boundary-walled but had small shrubs planted at the boundary to make one understand the extent to which one's property existed. Her house had two components, the modern terraced one in the front and the old tharavadu (ancestral) house in the back. Surely, the two were interconnected. The action was always at the rear, the tharavadu house. The kitchen was there, so was the dining area. The house was full of servant maids, all of them Muslim women from nearby poor families. They came in the morning and left by dusk. They ate at least two meals there. Most of them carried food home for their children. Umma allowed it and she never forbade them, for she knew of the many hungry, innocent small boys and girls, waiting for their mother to return home by the sunset, to devour the rich tasty & fried delicacies that their mother made for Umma's family. It was a daily affair.

I would reach the thalam - open verandah at the rear - that the tharavad had, and would stand their for a while. Soon one of the servants would announce me to Umma “ lo, the teacher's son is here'. Umma will ask the servant to bring my basket in. Minutes later the servant would come back to us with the basket full of rice that was cultivated in Umma’s paddy filed. The rice amounted to 10 KG. Most of the time, I would say 'coconut too'. She will go back and come with 6 coconuts. I would put the coconut too in the basket, take the basket on the head and walk back home. We always bought on credit. My mother would meet Umma every month and settle the bills. Umma never kept the accounts and she always went by the statement reported by my mother. Never had she questioned the statement of my mother.

On the rear of the house, they had a compound wall. Outside it, there was the big guava tree always full of ripe big fruits. Many times, when I came out of the thalam and beyond the wall, I would stop; keep the basket aside and climb the guava tree to pluck the fruits. At times, through her window, Umma could see me but she would not say anything and that equanimous face never frightened me. I would pluck sufficient fruits, jump down, take the basket on the head walk back home, criss – crossing through the same properties, biting and chewing the guava fruit all along.

For considerably long time, we were the beneficiaries of Umma's kindness. She always encouraged us to study and helpfully never increased the price of rice, coconut and firewood that she supplied to us, though at the market outside, the prices had soared multifold. However, never did she make our family feel that we were under her benevolence (actually we were). I consider it as a Godly trait. In many ways, it was to be: in the white saree she wore, in the equanimity in her face, in the positivity that she emanated, the calmness she made us feel in ourselves, the help she rendered was truly God like. Though time went by (almost four decades now), I am fully convinced that she truly was a manifestation or Avatar born to help families in hardship, such as mine.

We did not get the opportunity to reciprocate the kindness that she had bestowed on us. She never expected it. Umma never needed it either.

Viewed from the constricted religious perspective of today's world, it may look strange to have a relationship as explained above, between a Muslim aristocratic family and an average middle class Hindu household. True help rendered without any expectation in return. A silent delivery of help and a dutiful acceptance of the same. In time to come, rarely will one find such relationships existing, due to the narrow-minded selfishness of people and due to intra-community pressures. But having gone through such a long-term experience and understanding it’s significance in these changed times, gratitude for this saintly person overflows within me, making me everlastingly indebted.

Also, I earn to see the world to go back in time to give away such wonderful examples of give and take.

I doubt if it will happen again, ever !