Unwind now, our iron lady!

Beautiful long hair, golden hoops, sarees that spoke elan and a speed that never ceased to surprise me. 

My evenings were spent at her place -- exploring her daughter's (who went on to become one of my close aides) sticker collections, books and the kind of stationery that left me awestruck. 

Her son soon became my go to 'project manager', quite literally. Once, he spent hours drawing a 'hand' for me on a chart paper. It was a school project that I couldn't pull off well myself thanks to my scary human sketches. Well, it didn't stop at chart paper. He also ensured that it was stuck neatly on a cardboard sheet, coloured to such perfection that it could for a moment look as if someone had clicked a picture and stuck to the cardboard.

My first set of formal wear came from her daughter. My love for books grew at their place. I am sure both her children spent quite a fortune on me while I was growing up -- by buying me knick knacks to things I still cherish. But greatest of all, they gave me their time. Their presence. Their warmth. Love. And unending laughter peppered with yummy food. Onion rotis and mushrooms -- I swear I haven't confidently eaten those anywhere else. 

And then one day, they had to leave the colony where we had welcomed new years and countless other events of our lives. Why? Because, aunty had officially retired. I couldn't imagine her at home, without her morning 'Duronto speed' of getting things done before rushing for work and coming back home later in the evening with the same vigour and handling the household. Handle she did. Single-handedly for the most part. Be it raising her children or giving them a life probably beyond her own imagination through her sheer willpower and mettle.

The  move made our meetings less frequent but not any less meaningful. We did pyjama parties at her new place and that was also probably how I ended up knowing Navi Mumbai better (a breath of fresh air for Central line Mumbaikar). And each time, aunty was there... greeting me, ready to feed me till my stomach challenged to tear if another morsel went into my mouth!

Her laughter--boundless, carefree. Always! I last met her when her iconic hair only spoke of its lost glory. But the fighter that she was, she braved each cracker's noise that seemed to explode her ears during Diwali, as she lay mumbling about the pain she was in thanks to the cancer that had gained an entry into her being and was being an unwelcome guest. 

And in between the pain, the faint possibility that it might be the last time I was going to meet her (though my crossed fingers wanted it to be untrue) left me with very few words.

And this morning, the 6 AM call came. Aunty had left us a while ago. With a calm face, a smiling one, said Su didi, her daughter. I was dialling her number this evening to share the moment of bewilderment and loss from miles away. We didn't have many words. "She's gone, da," said didi. 

But in my contact list, she's still alive-- 'Su didi's mom'. Funny how I never called her by her name. She was our iron lady-- full of strength, steely resolve and love, even when she was almost on the verge of leaving this world. "Mol urangikko (You sleep, daughter)", she mumbled to her daughter, probably signalling that the storm was about to pass, leaving behind a silence, a void hard to fill.

Always in our memories, aunty! Love and love, always. Thanks for giving me two crazy people for life-- Suresh and Sulaya.