the head of the family - my badaapa

I used to often say in jest, "my family is a village and my village is my family" referring to the ten-fifteen households of 'Mohanty Sahi' of our Chhanaghara-Kushamati village, though there were fewer Mohantys than 'Das'es (our family name). It always felt like a big large family-village, while growing up, in this relatively modern village, just on the outskirts of the railway town of Jatani, which was just on the outskirts of the capital town Bhubaneswar. We were all a part of the same family tree and while the parents and especially grandparents had the exact nature of relationships - who got adopted by who, who married into who, who moved out and settled where; for us children it rarely mattered. We used to run around, from one house to the other, play in fields together, stole mangoes and guavas from each other's backyards and celebrated all major festivals as one big family. Everyone knew what was happening with everyone. Everyone was related to everyone. Few years back Kali Badabapa (elder uncle) created a family tree all the way from Anam Das (literally someone without a name) to our generation (with my and my cousins names) typed out with pictures. Badabapa used to say we don't know when this first person came to this village and where from; whether he was a man or god; but we owe it to him to remember him and for future generations to know about him. Hence, he did this meticulous job of capturing the entire family tree and relationships.

My grandfather was the youngest of his brothers and one of the youngest of his generation. They all had their set routines and mostly kept to themselves and one could very well predict where each one of them would be at a particular time of the day. We knew this for sure; it was critical for us to time our trips to gardens or pick the place for mischiefs and games. We needed to know where they would not be! In my father's generation, Kali Badabapa was the eldest in the village and most respected and revered. His father was the eldest among the grand-fathers. And yes, everyone in their generation was addressed as grandfather and everyone in my father's generation was addressed as badabapa (elder uncle) or dada (younger uncle) depending on the relative age. Also, in keeping with those times, there were at least six or seven brothers and sisters in almost every family. The age gap between the brothers and sisters, the age at which they got married and had children vis-a-vis their next generation created some interesting situations. There were uncles who were younger than brothers and sisters older than aunts. To illustrate, the elder children of some of my second cousins (my nephews and nieces) were in fact as old or even older to me. Clear ? Try this. A typical village cricket match score board might read:

Pupu - 4 runs : caught - Chungu (cousin brother), bowled - Dhunda (uncle)

The first story has to be about my birth. Father was posted away somewhere in Odisha (most probably Puri) as a part of his transferable job as OAS. It was the trio of Badabapa, my grandmother and my uncle who took my pregnant mother in an autorickshaw from the village to the Railway Hospital in the nearest town of Jatani. The doctor in-charge there was on leave and the emergency doctor refused to take up this delivery case which was starting to look complicated. It was the month of December and it was getting late, dark and cold. Badabapa decided to take the motley group and head to the District Hospital at Khurda and that is where I was born in the wee hours of the morning. My grandmother used to always narrate a story how I was born the size of a mice - she would always open up her palms to show ‘this is how large this boy was when born and then by Lord Gatiswara’s (Shiva, our village deity) grace once he took in a few breaths, he swelled up to normal size. My mother clearly never believed in the story that her son, born to the size of mice, grew instantaneously after inhaling air and moisture. Badabapa, also confirmed my mother’s version as she was his favorite, almost like a daughter, though the traditional customs require a more formal degree of deference between them. My mother later told me he would always enquire about my health, medicines I was taking, advising my mother to either increase or decrease the dosage etc. How does one even think of thanking someone for this? How does one thank his own blood, for one’s life?

In all the hustle-bustle, fun and memories of village life, one picture of Badabapa that remains firm is that of a man of principles, who had always the interest of the family, village and community paramount. The very sense of right and wrong was determined for many of us by what Badabapa said, advised or decided. If he decided for something, that must be right. Such was his righteousness and fairness that even those elder to him (my grandfather and other grandfathers) would consult him. He was always there in the times of crisis and grief; of his immediate family or otherwise. He was always happy with the progress and success of everyone. He was deeply committed to the village school and its welfare; he was the official and unofficial head of the village committee and would work out matters for the benefit of all, whether related to health or sanitation. When I received the National Balshree Award 1997 from the President of India many people, known and unknown, wished me on many occasions, at school, at Delhi and at home. But the memory of Badabapa pulling me closer to his chest and exclaiming "..well done! you have upheld the name of the clan..", would remain strongly etched on the sands of my memory. I can almost feel his red-checkered gamuchha, white dhoti and droplets of sweat on his bare chest even today.

He and his wife, Maa (again, this was a universal name for all children) were the ideal son and daughter-in-law. Having served bed-ridden parents for nearly two decades with love, affection and fortitude. Most grandmothers (including mine) who as mothers-in-law always had a complaint or two about their daughters-in-law (our mothers and aunts) would never tire of praising Badabapa and Maa. Such was the nature of relationships, that Maa used to call my father 'Bada Babuli' or 'elder Babuli' (Babuli being the name of their first-born). Anytime my father or any of us went to Badabapa's house for something and Maa was around the kitchen, she would not let us leave without serving us something to eat. That still continues even today on our rarer visits to our village.

On the matter of food, sharing and brotherhood, let me recount a story in the memory of an elder cousin brother Chandu Bhai, whom we lost untimely due to a road accident. Manabasa Gurubaar (usually in the month of Nov-December) is a very auspicious and holy festival in Odisha. It is in the honour of Maa Lakshmi and the puja, preparation of delicacies (including the variety of pithas) is led by the women of the family who usually keep a fast. For us children though it is a day of eating various salted and sweet dishes which are usually shared among families. One such Manabasa, Chungu bhai, Chandhu Bhai and I, we sat down together, in the verandah of Badabapa's house which was at the centre of the three families. Maa had put out a large thaali for us and started to serve various delicacies that she had prepared and even some that other families had shared with her. All three of us were unusually (or usually) hungry that day and within minutes, we managed to finish around 3-4 servings by Maa. This was a particularly visible spot and watching us eat there, my mother and other aunts got us peethas, ghantas, dalma from their homes and handed them over to Maa to serve. We finished them in a hurry too. All in one big plate. People gathered around; some from rooftops, to see what looked like an eat-off contest. Sisters and aunts kept coming in with bowls and plates full of delicacies and no sooner than they arrived with plates-full of food, they were consumed. We had no idea, what came from whose home and who ate what. We ate for almost an hour and the quantity and quality of food that we three gulped down remains as the best food memory ever. We would always recollect this memory with a smile mixed with joy and pain (after we lost Chandu bhai).

In later years, whenever I used to visit our village, I would share stories of my travels to different parts of the country, including to religious sites. Badabapa, Maa and some other friends and relatives had formed a motley group of pilgrims who travelled in groups of 10-15 to all the religious places. Badabapa would be the head of the group - he was a natural leader, and plan out all things. He would book the train tickets, work out accommodation, darshan timings etc. After checking my well-being and progress, Badabapa would sit down with a pen and paper and note down as many details as he could about places I had visited and were in his scheme of things to visit. Maa would serve me a small dose of playful scolding alongwith food "...it is you, who gives him all this info and puts these travel plans in his head and then he drags us all along at this age to god knows where all..".

Badabapa used to reflect on the loss of village life and would simply sum it up by saying "..how will a village thrive if the people who make the village are not here..". Again, he would never say it with any bitterness but rather as a pain as most of us moved to bigger towns and cities for education and work and our visits back to the village became rarer and rarer. He would say it with understanding and empathy. He would be happy with the fact that some of us still have a lot of attachment to the village and do come back whenever we could. He was surely a big reason why we did so.



I heard from my father that he was unwell, but I was sure he would recover. His demeanor, his smile and his spirit used to always belie his age. When, a few days later, I heard that he is not recovering and rather has reduced his diet drastically, I began to worry a bit. I called up and even managed to speak to him. When he heard that I was recovering from COVID myself, he got very concerned and advised us to be cautious and take care. His concern for the well-being and health of others was the primary thought with him even in his last days. Badabapa was an active man; always doing something in the verandah or backyard and in these last days he must have been a bit restless, not being able to meet many people, travel, inquire about everyone due to the pandemic. I believe but he had done his bit. Left an ideal so high for us that it can never be emulated but only inspire us. He has lived his life to full and given so much. What hurts is that many of us could not be with him during his last journey due to this pandemic. While his body rests, quite rightly in the village, the heaven will be so much better a place now, that his soul has gone there; he will make sure it is !