A little away from the Gurukula, there was a hanging bridge the children wanted to see. While we were walking there, we met Lakshmamma from the Gurukula staff. She was carrying a milk can on her head. Who knows… Otherwise maybe she would have just lifted and carried my granddaughter around. The happiness on her face when she saw us had no limits.
“I’ll take a photo,” I said.
“Amma… it should come nicely… take one with Putti also…” she said shyly.
“And then… you put those photos somewhere no… put it there…” she added, meaning Facebook.
“The Acharyas here show them to me…” she said with a smile.
Lakshmamma would patiently teach the Gurukula children how to milk cows carefully, how to care for them, what fodder to give, which medicinal leaves could be used, how traditional remedies were prepared… she would pour out whatever knowledge she had with such sincerity. Even veterinarians treated her with respect. The children adored her.
In the goshala, she knew every cow and calf individually. Even while naming newborn calves, she would celebrate with the children like a family member. If any cow or calf fell sick, she would become emotional to the point of tears. Sometimes people had to force her to eat.
Now her daughter-in-law also comes along to help.
That day the cows had been taken out for grazing… otherwise she might have insisted we take photos standing beside each and every one of them… perhaps.
“Lakshmamma remembers Sudhakarji every single day… Today she was waiting, wondering if he might come… Mathrushree…” the children told me.
Pretending to be offended, I said, “So Lakshmamma wasn’t waiting for me?”
“Amma… if he comes, won’t you and Putti definitely come too?” she replied innocently.
She had known my granddaughter from the days she crawled around as a baby. The same affection remained even now. She cuddled her with the same warmth — pure, uncomplicated love… affection without expectation… the fragrance of village life.
Can we ever truly find that in towns and cities?
She stirred old memories too. She asked about so many children from those days. When I said, “I don’t remember…” she would immediately mention their village, their names, some mischief they had done, their naughty habits — trying to pull those memories back into my mind. She reminded me of trees and plants too. Some memories returned… many did not.
Even though she tried so hard, when I still could not remember certain things, I felt ashamed.
Not just her… Sheshamma, Nagaratnamma, Latha… and several others also came in between their endless work, enquired lovingly, spoke for a while, and went back.
Even though Lakshmamma tried to oil and grease the nuts and bolts of this bogie… somehow, a few had already worn out with time.
By Veena Shanbhogue
Translation and Preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue for Shanbhogue Publications
For Kannada Version Click Here
Leave a comment