As soon as my husband came home, I said, “I met Hedige Bhatta at the old age home. He wants to meet you.”
He looked surprised. “How do you know it was him? Did you see someone and assume he was somebody else?” he asked.
To be fair, his doubt was not unreasonable. Remembering people as well as he does is simply not possible for me. Many times, it is this very habit of mine that lands me in trouble. If there is a foolish person in the story, it is probably me.
“No, no,” I said. “Just as you expected, I didn’t recognize him. He introduced himself.”
“Oh, is that so? Then I’ll go meet him tomorrow itself.”
“I’ll come too,” I said.
“You went there today itself. Why go again tomorrow?” he asked.
My granddaughter laughed and said, “Ajja, what kind of a name is that… Hedige Bhatta?”
My husband explained, “In his great-grandfather’s time, their family used to weave and supply all the bamboo baskets needed for the temple. They had so much bamboo growing in their estate, and plenty of workers too. Now there isn’t a bamboo grove left, nor people to do the work. Only the name remains.”
She stretched out a casual “Ohhh…” and walked away, but my husband was not done.
“They were very wealthy people. Everything was ancestral property. They didn’t waste it either. They maintained it well. His father apparently used to tell my father-in-law, ‘When giving daughters in marriage, choose wealthy homes. When bringing daughters-in-law, bring them from poor homes.’”
And even after bringing a daughter-in-law from a poor family…
What happened?
She remained more concerned about her parental home. Neither her father-in-law, mother-in-law, nor husband objected. They felt it was natural for a woman to care for her family and supported her whenever she wanted to help them. After all, they had enough means to support four households. They had been regular customers at our shop for years.”
Recently, when their topic came up in conversation, my Bhava (brother-in-law) had said:
“After all four sons got married, quarrels began among the daughters-in-law. The estate was divided into five shares and separate houses were built. His wife insisted that she too should get a share or money. She took her portion and went to live permanently with her elder brother.
“For about a year after that, Bhatta managed his share of the property. Later he sold it to the Hebbars who owned the neighbouring estate. After that, nobody knows where that good man disappeared. Neither his children nor his wife seemed worried about him. He didn’t even tell me before leaving. Just a week before I met him, he told me that he had sold the estate to the Hebbars. When I asked what he planned to do next, he said he hadn’t thought about it. He looked deeply troubled. Poor man… he always had a heart to help others.”
My husband continued, “His wife has no sense either. At this age, how could she leave her husband and go live there? Nobody in the village knows he is staying here. Otherwise, when I dropped you there, I would have spoken to him. Let me call my Anna right now and tell him.”
He got up to make the call.
I stopped him.
“Don’t. He has come here without informing anyone. That probably means he doesn’t want anyone to know. Speak to him tomorrow first. Only if he agrees should you tell anyone. The rest is your wish. This is only my opinion.”
Perhaps he felt I was right. He sat back down.
The next day, I accompanied him. Thinking my presence might make things awkward between them, I went to spend time with my friend.
After their conversation was over, he came to fetch me. Bhatta himself walked us up to the car.
On the way back, my husband repeated more or less what Bhava had told us earlier.
“He left his village, deposited his money safely, travelled to various pilgrimage centres, and finally came here with the intention of spending the rest of his life in this old age home.”
I interrupted.
“He spends the whole day working in the garden. I thought he was one of the workers.”
My husband smiled.
“That work is his life. The happiness and peace he gets from it, he finds nowhere else. When he came here, he apparently made it clear that he would not join any groups, nor take part in prayers, yoga, exercises, or bhajans. He wanted to spend his time only doing this work.”
He kept talking about one thing and another.
But none of it was reaching my ears.
My mind had wandered elsewhere.
What does it matter how we live? What does it matter what we do? Is it karma from a previous birth, or the mystery of this one? Whatever experiences are meant for us, we must go through them, mustn’t we? Wherever our debt of water and food lies, there too we must stay…
Lost in such thoughts, I finally reached home.
Veena Shanbhogue
Translation and Preservation by Sumanth Shanbhogue for Shanbhogue Publications
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