Surat Nu Jaman,Tapi Nu Maran

They say that the crows come to fetch your soul when it departs from its mortal being.

There were five of them, silently perched in a dignified demeanor outside her windowsill.

Her face beamed an inner glow as she slept peacefully in the room within, revealing no sign of agony suffered since past three months; encased within a network of fleecy wrinkles, hair out of harm’s way in a bob cut; dressed in her signature Khadi skirt and short sleeved shirt-her preferred attire since days of picketing straw dolls at Bhagal crossroads; when she supported Gandhiji’s Quit India movement as a child.

The doctor who came to issue her certificate of death broke down.” Who will rebuke me for my unpunctuality now?” He sobbed. Since the time she had needed physicians, she had been wary of their degrees.” I could bet my last Icy balm that most of Surat’s labourers in Varacha and Pandesara are given shots by quacks with fancy degrees.” she would state, as she scrutinized credentials of every doc who examined her. The balm was her precious jar of relief for bow legs that had seen better days when she bicycled to Nari Saurakshan Gruh, originally located at Piplod. She would pedal from within the walled city, over Ghodod road which was then a dusty track for racing horses; spend the day counseling rescued female sex workers, women who knew no better than being suicidal. Later, she had trekked the Dangs, educating independence to adivasi students. By the time rheumatism set in, she sheltered and kept a sharp maternal eye over local college girls.

As the sun changed its last set of windows for the day, the house began to fill with mourners. Wobbly kneed sisters lamented their irreplaceable loss, braver family members held on to their tears as best they could because she had chuckled upon instructing them,” I don’t want any crying; remind everybody that it is considered shameful accordingly to Hindu Bali. Don’t trouble the NRIs, for I have no intention to wait on an ice slab while they manage a special leave from their tedious routine.”

Somewhere within the cross legged crowd of veiled women, a ringtone blared out a stale item number .Unnerved, the elders began to discuss dates for ‘besnu’,’barmu’,’termu’. Before their mission for setting menus could commence, they were politely informed by a grand child about her last wishes -
” Don’t host any post death ceremonies whatsoever. Don’t run an obituary in the papers; there will be people eating bhelpuri over my photograph the next day. Help the needy, not the greedy. Feeding our God men will not nourish my soul, I would rather you all remember me every time you bite into a hot ‘mirchi bhaji’ or relish a ‘ghari’.”
Talk about Gharis sent her gleefully reminiscing; she would relive delicious tales about delicacies that originated in Surat, the art of rolling paper thin patulis, how the English first discovered custard apples here and named them so, how the original ‘sancha’ ice cream was pure cream laden with luscious fresh fruit, how khaja got combined with mango pulp, citing reasons why Surti cuisine is glorified.

The monotonous chanting of God’s name died down at Ashwinikumar cremation ground. Now modernized with the passage of time; it offers ashes of the deceased within a few hours of the pyre being lit. A little shop across the road, offers voluntary service of sending the same to Varanasi; via which, relatives recieve a post card of confirmation from a trust, stating that the ashes of their loved ones have been immersed in the Ganges at Kashi.

She preferred the Tapti. “The old proverb stating ‘Surat nu jaman ane Kashi nu maran’ is meant for visitors, not us Surtis. Flowing by the Shivji temple at the Paanch Pandav Ovaro, near Ashwinikumar, is a segment of the Tapi known as Gupt Ganga, even the Ganges comes to here to wash her sins. It’s futile for Surtis to go to Kashi when the Tapi is pure enough for the Ganges herself.” she had informed.

She will be missed terribly, but then again, her Surti spirit shall live on forever.