Passing the Baton

For nine-year-old Balaji, the past few weeks had been a blur. Something had happened to disturb their idyllic middle-class existence. His was a family of five, his parents, his eldest brother Narendranath aged 17, and his elder sister Renu aged 14. Amongst the three siblings, Balaji had a zest for food, especially prepared by his dear Amma (Tamil equivalent for mother), who indulged her youngest child’s love for food.

The perceptiveness of a child told Balaji that something was amiss. But given that he was still a child, it didn’t linger in his mind for long. But what didn’t certainly escape his attention was the fact that his mother wasn’t keeping well. Visits to the doctor had become frequent, followed by a number of tests. And Balaji noticed that his mother’s fair countenance was increasingly becoming pale and ashen. But in spite of her debilitating condition, she would still muster up whatever little energy she had to venture into the kitchen and cook for the family, and particularly for her youngest one, who relished and feasted on her culinary preparations.

When fatigue overcame his mother, she would lie down on the bed, and her mind would wander off. What would become of her family? Who would cook for them, and tend to the house? Her eldest son though 17, had a wise and mature head on his young shoulders, brilliant in his academics. Though only 14, she had trained her daughter in helping her out with the household chores. She had noticed her daughter’s growing maturity with a quiet sense of pride and satisfaction.

What worried her was her youngest child. He was all of eight years, consumed by his love for cricket. He would study the required amount before the onset of exams, and would get reasonably good grades in school. He was a rumbustious kid, and always looking for the next opportunity at mischief or an adventure. As a mother, she appreciated that each child is unique, and never curbed Balaji’s boyish enthusiasm.

Preoccupied by these grim forebodings, she would call Balaji to her side, and would gently counsel him to heed his siblings’ and his father’s advice. And be a good, obedient and studious boy, while retaining his love for cricket, cycling and other seasonal sports that he liked to be a part of. He would hear his mother patiently, and assured her that her wishes will be respected.

With her illness showing no signs of abating, matters finally came to a head when a specialist doctor was consulted. He recommended a slew of tests, and one of the tests was a biopsy. When the results finally came in, the calm and quiet of the family was shattered. Her illness was diagnosed as a rare kind of bone cancer, with very little hope of a cure. Moreover, the cancer had spread to other organs and tissues, with the doctors diagnosing it as a cancer in terminal stage, and with absolutely no hope for the patient. The specialist gave her a few weeks.

She expressed her wish to spend her last days in the comfort and familiar surroundings of her home. Balaji’s filial instincts forewarned him that all was not well, and something was seriously amiss. She dismissed his concerned enquiries, and told him that she will be well soon. But when he matched her words with her declining physical condition, he knew that there was something seriously wrong with his dear mother. His playfulness had all but disappeared. He wouldn’t go out to play cricket with his friends, and his most prized possession, his cricket bat and tennis ball lay unattended in a corner of the bedroom. He had a forlorn look on his innocent and chubby countenance, and seeing him thus, his siblings immediately got into the act. Renu, a lovely and simple soul, became his mother figure, and would affectionately serve him his food at the right time. She would exhort her younger brother to go out and play, and tried to engage him with reading Amar Chitra Katha comics, which he loved reading and rereading any number of times. While he would have his food silently, devoid of the relish and gusto, he shunned the outdoors and his comics.

Then the fateful day arrived. Balaji’s mother breathed her last. Her end was peaceful, with her husband by her side during those fateful last moments, holding her hand and trying to assuage her fear, and calm her down. Her passing away plunged the entire family in grief and sorrow. Balaji’s father was inconsolable. His elder siblings though equally grieving, suddenly grew very protective of their kid brother, and shielded him from having to witness the last rites and funeral ceremonies of their dear departed mother.

Balaji at once instinctively knew that the one person who loved him unconditionally was no more. He felt like an untethered calf, which got separated from its mother, and felt completely lost in her absence. All the cheer on his countenance, and the sparkle in his eyes was gone, giving way to a sullen and gaunt face, that had forgotten how to smile. Then, for the ensuing thirteen days, he would from a distance, watch his elder brother perform their mother’s funeral ceremonies as per orthodox Hindu tradition.

After the conclusion of the 13-day ceremonies, Balaji’s father’s attention turned to the affairs of his family. He was employed in the Public Sector, and was known to be a workaholic. The context was very right for him; to forget his sorrow and drown himself completely in his work. He instinctively realized that this was a kind of escapism that he could ill afford. He had to take charge of his home, and his three growing children, who still had a fair bit of education left to complete.

He therefore requested for a fortnight’s leave, which was readily granted on humanitarian grounds. A beautiful black and white framed photograph of Balaji’s mother was placed at a prominent place in the hall. Balaji would daily look at the loving photograph of his dear mother for a few minutes with wistful and moist eyes, and then would attend to his routine.

A mundane but important activity that confronted Balaji’s father was who would cook for the family. All these years, he had assisted his wife in the kitchen, and he was no stranger to venturing into the kitchen and test his culinary skills, though he hadn’t done so all along. He also knew how much his little fellow loved his mother’s cooking, and therefore decided that he will cook for the family, at least for the period of his leave from office.

He prepared the very same dishes that his late wife prepared so lovingly for the entire family, and particularly for her little fellow. After the table was prepared, and the family sat down to eat, Renu voluntarily took on the role of serving food to everybody, which was all along the sole preserve of her dear mother. Balaji’s father had kept his gaze locked on his youngest son, waiting to see whether the mood of the child would change after partaking of the food that he had lovingly prepared for everybody. He knew the innate resilience of a child, knowing that sooner or later, the child would bounce back from the emotional lows that he was now going through. And food, especially his mother’s food, could indeed have a magical effect on his little fellow, and help him bounce back.

He prepared the food exactly as his wife used to, paying attention to those deft touches and flourishes that she would carry out to make the food taste tantalizingly delicious. He waited with bated breath to witness any change of expression in his son’s forlorn countenance.

After Balaji had finished his three-course South Indian vegetarian meal, he looked up at his father with a glint in his eyes, and exclaimed, “Appa (Tamil equivalent for father), your cooking is an exact replica of Amma’s. I felt once again that I was partaking food prepared by my dear mother”. Some of the lost cheer and buoyancy had indeed returned to Balaji’s countenance, which was a big relief for his father, and his elder siblings.

Balaji continued, “Appa, when did you learn to cook exactly the way that Amma cooked? I thought that you were more preoccupied with matters of office than with managing the kitchen. How did you work this magic in the kitchen?” Seeing the joy and smile return to some extent on Balaji’s face moved his father to tears. His biggest worry was the damaging impact that the loss of a mother could have on a tender eight-year-old child, and he was at his wit’s end, not knowing how to turn the tide and the clock back to see the cheer on his son’s face.

Realizing that he was posited at a sensitive inflection point for the family, and the child in particular, he sat his son affectionately next to him and said, “Son, I will share with you how I happened to magically come in the possession of your mother’s brilliant culinary skills. As I sat holding her hands in those fateful last moments, and even as Death stared her in the face, she was still worried about who will cook for her little fellow after she is dead and gone. And holding my hand, she said, “I hereby transmit all of my culinary skills to you, so that you can cook for my family, and particularly my little one, who should never miss my cooking".

With those magical skills now in my possession, I ventured into the kitchen, preparing lunch for the family, not in the least sure how the preparations would turn out, and whether it would be tasty and palatable to the family, and particularly to you. Seeing you exclaim with joy that my cooking is an exact template of your mother’s cooking was the first vindication that the magical transmission of cooking skills from your mother to me was indeed working and at play in the kitchen”.

Balaji sat wide-eyed, listening to his father’s narrative with a sense of wonder, so very native to a child. He believed every word of what his father had told him. Balaji’s father was in no way practicing a deception on his gullible child, but only trying to pull his family, and especially his youngest son out of the emotional trough into which he had gotten into, post his mother’s demise. The subliminal message from the father to the son was that his mother’s legacy was still very much there, warmly touching their lives on a day-to-day basis.

The father’s narrative had the intended effect. Balaji rushed to his father, and warmly embraced him. The father was beside himself with emotion, and told his son, “See, your mother has ensured that her cooking lives on after her, by her magical transference of her culinary skills to me. She never once forgot you, always keeping you in her thoughts and prayers”.

Balaji now felt light in mind, body, and spirit. The pall of gloom that had enveloped him all these days was finally lifting. And providentially, it was a sunny December morning with blue skies, and with a discernible nip in the air. He now went to where his dear mother’s photograph was placed, held his little hands in prayer, and thanked her from the bottom of his heart, with tears of joy streaming down his chubby cheeks.

He got ready to go to school, and as he stepped out of home, his eyes fell lovingly on his most prized possession, his cricket bat and ball that had been gathering dust all these days. He was game for a hit today evening with his friends. All this was not lost on his elder siblings Renu and Narendranath, who watched him lovingly and approvingly. The routine of their everyday lives had returned. The wheel had come full circle.