Ajja

Ajja

Appa calls at 1330 hours on Friday, the 20th of July 2007.
“Smitha, I’m afraid there is some bad news. Ajja…”
His voice breaks. “Ajja is no more.” I listen to Appa sob as I try to absorb this news. Try to cope with it, so I can arrange to leave to Siddapur to see my Ajja for the …for the last time.

They have laid him out in the outer living room. Sandalwood and rose garlands are draped on him, incense scents the air and the Vishnu Sahasranama plays softly. He looks peaceful and calm - dignified as always. Ammamma sits by his side, dry eyed, but she bursts in to tears when she sees me.
“Where can you find a man like this?” she sobs, as I hug her very tight. “Where can you find someone like him?”
She describes his last moments.
“He was very breathless, so we gave him oxygen and suddenly his body jerked and it was over.”
Vijayatte tells me Ammamma kept shaking Ajja, telling him to talk to her, and when the doctor came, she fell at his feet and asked him to make Ajja ok.
“What might have happened?” she asks me. “He was breathless, but not unusually so.”
“A sudden cardiac arrest, probably. But Vijayatte, I would pray for a death like this for someone I loved. Sudden, with no time for pain or fear. He was continent, oriented; his memory was sharp till the very last breath”.
Shashi says, “Yes, he died like he lived. With dignity.”

Ammamma sits next to Ajja. She refuses to eat or drink anything, does not lean on the wall. We beg her to rest for a few moments but she says, “No, this is the last seva I am doing for him.”
She repeatedly reaches under the covering sheet and massages his right forearm. I ask why.
“He was saying this morning that this hand hurt. ... So ...”

Vijayatte has helped nurse Ajja for so many years. She has given him his tablets, taken him to the doctor – Ammamma says “Vijaya is my right hand.” Perhaps this is why Ajja’s death hits her so hard.
She tells me - “I was giving him oxygen today. He wanted to tell me something, but I thought that talking was secondary - he needed his oxygen. I did not let him speak, and now, Smitha, I can't bear it, I can’t stop wondering what he wanted to say.” she breaks down.
So much heartache. Medhakka and family arrive from Bangalore, and she holds on to Ammamma and cries.
“He just wanted another six months.” Ammamma sobs to Medhakka. “Just six months more, so that he could meet Suranna.” Rahul sits quietly behind Ammamma. He finally persuades her to lean against a cushion for a moment. Prabha chikki and Ramesh chikkayya arrive. Prabha chikki is wailing, holding on to Ajja, touching his face.
Appa, Rachana, Rajesh, Seemu, V.N. Mava, Samit, Amod reach around 3am. Amod and Samit sob outside, trying to compose themselves before Ammamma sees them. Ammamma holds on to Appa and cries “Subraya, it is over. He has left us.”
Seemu weeps to me “Smithakka, he wanted to meet me, and I kept putting it off. It’s too late now. I can’t stand it.

The night wears on. We try to cope by remembering Ajja. These are some of the things that I hear. There are so many more memories discussed that night that I do not hear, so many more that are unvoiced.

Viju mava tells me “Dr Sattur in Hubli wanted to examine him, and asked him to take off his shirt. He removed it carefully, shook out the sleeves and hung it neatly on a peg. The doctor shook his head in amazement at Ajja’s discipline.”

Medhakka tells me he used to come home at 8 pm, and from eight to nine, he would read the Rudra. Then he would have a drink.
“I was so immature then, I used to argue with him, tell him that following worship with alcohol was hypocrisy, but now I know his character had many facets. He was very spiritual but he enjoyed his drink too. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Medhakka says.
Prabha chikki remembers Shubha’s wedding day.
“He was sick just before the event, and we were worried whether he would have the strength to get through it. But he woke up before everyone, and by the time we saw him, he was seated in the living room, neat as a pin in his starched white kurta and dhoti.”
“How did he do it?” I ask Medhakka.
“How did he manage to do everything he did over the last 5 years with a failing heart and lungs?”
“Strength of character.” She replies.
I remember him calling me up when I was carrying. I had already lost a pregnancy, and the second time around, I was terrified. I wasn’t certain at all about the outcome. Ajja used to tell me over the phone. “I am doing gana homas, I am praying for you and I know that very soon, a little Ganapathi will be born to you.”
Ajja, why didn’t I tell you how much that meant to me? Why didn’t I thank you for the courage you gave me?
We all smile for a moment, thinking about Ajja’s characteristic departures. It did not matter how much time he spent with us, the moment he sat in his car on the way to the next destination, he was off. Eyes straight ahead, mind set ahead and no time for messy sentimental goodbyes or long winded farewells.

It is morning now, and Ammamma has not rested for a second. People from the town trickle in to pay their last respects. An old man hobbles in wearing a woollen cap and thick glasses. He touches Ajja’s feet and whispers softly. Then a sleek, well-fed gent in a khadi kurta and Nehru topi pays his respects and lays a sandalwood garland at Ajja’s feet. Then walks in an old lady dressed in rags. A Christian, a Muslim, a rich man, a poor one … the list goes on. How many lives did Ajja touch?

It is time for the last rites. Ajja had told Nani mava that he did not want his sons to go through the trauma of having their heads shorn, but they all shave their heads anyway. I’m sure these rituals have a meaning and a purpose – but it hurts so much. The placing of gold in the mouth, the pouring water over the cold body…words can not describe the pain. Finally, the pallbearers try to remove the body, but Ammamma does not want to let Ajja go. She holds on tight to the body… at this point, everyone in the hall is sobbing. Sixty-seven years together – how can she let him go? She falls back and Ajja is carried to the place where he will be cremated.

We all follow. Ajja is laid on the pyre, and his body is covered with a silk sheet, and then more wood. The chanting of mantras and the drizzle muffle the occasional sobs. Ajja’s wife and his children and grandchildren and the rest of the family lay wood on his body and the fire is lit.
After this, some measure of calm returns to us. The pain is still there, however it is bearable now. But there is a terrible bleakness in Ammamma’s eyes.
“What will I do with my time now?” she asks. “With myself?”

As the fire consumes him, we start back home. I turn back once to see my Ajja – a shrewd politician, a successful businessman, a respected and loved father, husband and grandfather, a man with a spiritual side, a man who above all, lived life and savoured it. The smoke rises to the rainy sky.

It’s all over now.

But as we walk back home, this is what I hear:
“He kept my family fed.”
“He started me in my career.”
“He helped me get my daughter married.”
“I started my business with the money he loaned me.”
“He gave me courage to face a lifetime.”
“He educated my children.”
“I am what I am today because of Ganesh Hegde.”

When a life is lived like this, the fact of death becomes irrelevant.