whose food we eat, their song we sing

‘Empowering India’s senior citizens’, ‘Celebrating age’ are the bylines by which Harmony India defines what it does. Here, senior citizens are called ‘silvers’. So when we wrote this story about our beloved Pedatha, besides posting it on our blog, we also wanted it to be featured in the Harmony magazine or on the Harmony website. We called and they agreed instantly and graciously!
Click here to read it on their site.

PEDATHA, THE ETERNAL BRIDE

Often we find that our minds have definite images of places, people, events. When I think of my neighbour Mrs Kalra, I instantly remember the day she came to our home in a blue silk kurta. Uma Didi, my mentor, in my memory is always carrying voluminous literature in her hands. And Pedatha, to Jigyasa and myself, a bride in love…

Yes, that’s our sharpest and dearest memory of beloved Pedatha, the protagonist of our book Cooking at Home with Pedatha. How strange are the ways of life that within a span of seconds, a person becomes a mere memory. It is hard to believe that she is no more a phone call away, although her phone number still remains on our mobile handsets.

Before sharing the ‘bride’ memory, let me tell you about her. Pedatha means eldest aunt in Telugu. Her name was Subhadra Krishna Rau Parigi and she was the eldest daughter of former President of India, Bharat Ratna Dr V V Giri. My friend and partner Jigyasa is married to her nephew, Giri. That is how I first met her, over five years ago. Who would have ever imagined in that first meeting that the coming years in our lives were going to totally revolve around her? That her face would decorate the cover of the book that we were destined to write together?

It was in September 2005 that Srivatsa, our photographer, sent us the second set of photographs of Pedatha. What a lovely collection… Pedatha laughing, smiling, talking, each photograph capturing yet another mood! Prabodh (my brother and the design inspiration behind the book) was very excited. “Wow, now the book is going to look fabulous,” he said as he arranged the photographs on his table at different angles. “But why does she look so different? The previous photographs were shot only a year ago. Actually, she looks younger in these!”

Jigyasa and I did not know how to begin explaining Pedatha’s expression, the secret behind her wistful look. We journeyed back in time to our innumerable meetings with Pedatha, to the first time we ate her brinjal rice (known as vaangi baath in Telugu), right up to that afternoon’s photo-session with her that stamped the memory of her in our minds as an immortal bride.

To Pedatha, cooking was not an automatic task; it was her passion. When she was in the kitchen churning out her favourite recipes, she was at her happiest. It is difficult to count how many daughters, nieces, nephews and friends before us had become her fans because of her vaangi baath.

Her warmth beckoned us again and again, and we found ourselves often at Pedatha’s home whenever we were in Bengaluru. She always welcomed us, scolding us for not eating enough or urging us to add another teaspoon of ghee to the spicy podi rice on our plates. In a nutshell, we became her ardent students and she an untiring teacher who enjoyed and welcomed our frequent questions and detailed interest in every recipe. This was the beginning of our personal collection of Pedatha’s recipes, which then, as destiny would have it, moved on to become a book.

The book has many pages with photographs of Pedatha. The affection, enthusiasm and simplicity in her face simply give the book its life breath. She speaks to her children, her dear readers in every page of the book. These pictures were shot without any planning on one of those innumerable days when we were visiting her in Bengaluru and just wanted to be photographed with her.

Eventually, the manuscript was ready but the cover eluded us. Her photographs that looked good and natural in the inside pages somehow did not seem right for the cover. Jigyasa was sure that the cover photo should feature her in a silk sari and her favourite pearls, as she appeared at family weddings, looking her absolute best. The idea made sense, so we briefed her over the phone and scheduled a photoshoot for the following week. However, when we reached her home in Bengaluru with Srivatsa, we became speechless looking at her. We were shocked to see how tired she looked! Of course, she was 82 years old, but we had met her just a month ago when she looked fine.

“What is the matter Pedatha? Are you unwell?” I asked as she embraced us one by one. Her body felt so frail, so weak. “Yes, I seem to tire easily these days. Look at me today, still in my nightgown! I find it so tiresome to change again and again,” she said with a smile. With a heavy heart, Jigyasa apologised for troubling her with our visit, to which she rebuked her saying, “How can you ever cause me any trouble? Your mere presence makes my day bright.” Steering us towards the dining table, she added, “I feel delighted to be on such a high pedestal but I will never understand why you both consider my simple home cooking worthy of a book! I hope that you enjoy the fruits of your hard work many times over.”

How often she had expressed this thought to us! Such was her genuine humility. As much as she knew that she had extraordinary culinary skills, she could not believe that her recipes could inspire us to write a book, keeping her as the central axis.

“Pedatha, which sari would you like to wear?” Jigyasa asked as we sifted through her wardrobe. “Anything of your choice,” she answered, sounding tired. Jigyasa looked at me, her expression conveying, ‘To hell with the photograph! Not worth the trouble if it meant disturbing her’. “Let it be Pedatha, you need to rest,” we said. “Wearing a sari can be so cumbersome. We have your previous photos and we will surely find something there.” She smiled so affectionately, “But I am going to rest as you both do all the work! After all, did you not say that you were going to dress me up?”

Jigyasa adjusts Pedatha's ear studs

With loving indulgence, Jigyasa draped the sari around her. Instantly she looked 10 years younger. At every step we took her consent, asking her, “Pedatha, would you like some face powder for the camera’s benefit? Can we apply some kajal in your eyes?” She simply answered, “As you wish Amma, I trust your judgment. I am happy to let you decide.”

She looked so lovely, so ethereal that we could not but help asking her, albeit with some hesitation, “Would you like a small bindi on your forehead? Would you mind if we put some jasmine in your hair?” She again nodded sweetly. At our look of amazement, she laughed and answered, “My husband may have passed away, but deep within me, I am always in love. He is right here, in my heart.”

Jigyasa doing up Pedatha's hair

She always dressed so simply that a little face powder and kohl accentuated her features and took away so many years from her face. A hint of lipstick and one could see why her husband called her ‘cupid-lipped’! What is it about people her age that a little dressing-up make them look like the heroines of yesteryears? With jasmine in her hair and pearls around her neck, she left us speechless. When Srivatsa asked her, “Pedatha, if Peddanana were to see you today, what would he do?”, she answered instantly with the confidence of a 16 year-old in love, “He would marry me all over again”.

The hours passed with laughter and memories, and Srivatsa’s constant chatter as he clicked away. That was Pedatha’s magic. The camera just loved her. Throughout the photo session she looked radiant and fresh, chatting happily, praising her doting son and daughter-in-law and reminiscing about bygone days. All her tiredness had vanished and we were transported to another world. As dusk set in and Srivatsa started packing up, Jigyasa said, “Pedatha, let us help you freshen up and get changed for the night before we leave.” Pedatha laughed and stopped her. “No, now all of you leave, I will undress by myself.” She hugged us, kissed us many times, showered blessings infinite and waved us good bye.

We remained quiet as we walked down her lane and said goodbye to Srivatsa, each one silently absorbing the day’s happenings. I asked, “Why did she refuse our help? Her daughter-in-law is in Mumbai. Will her maid be able to help her the way we would?” Jigyasa reflected and replied, “I understand this emotion Pratibha. She will want to sit by herself in front of the mirror for a little while before changing.” Jigyasa being a dancer understands Shringara Rasa better than me.

I remembered something else. “Jigyasa, do you recall? Pedatha kept admiring and telling you that she wished Giri was with you. There was romance in the air around her!” “She said that to you too,” Jigyasa answered, sending us both into giggles. Never before had we seen Pedatha in such a romantic mood. Today, as we had dressed her, she had once again become the 16 year-young bride.

Just then, the mobile phone rang. As Jigyasa spoke, her eyes became moist. “No Pedatha, you don’t realise how beautiful you are, from within and without,” I heard Jigyasa telling her. “Yes, she is with me. In fact, we were talking about you… no, no… it is our good fortune that you love us so much. Thank you Pedatha, I love you too.”

She turned to me, relating what Pedatha just told her. “She says that she has never felt happier. Just now, when she was looking into the mirror, she felt as if her husband was gazing at her. How many times she said that she loves us as if we were her own!” To us, this was the sweetest fruit of the past two years of hard work.

Well, that day’s photograph decorated the cover of the book. The book was nominated for an award for ‘Best Cookbook Cover in the World, 2006’. We realise that when you do something with unconditional love, it pays off. Her face on the cover, those smiling eyes about which we have received so many compliments, holds such precious memories for us.

"Cooking at Home with Pedatha" - photo by Ishrath

A couple of months before she passed away, we were chatting with her on the phone and reading out an email we had received praising her gaze on the cover and Pedatha said, “Amloo [darling], I don’t consider myself pretty, but I like that cover very much too! I cannot understand why!”

“But we do,” I said. “You were in love that day.”

“Oh yes, little one”, she said, and laughing, sent us a dozen kisses over the phone.

It was Pedatha’s birthday on 2 May. This story is an affectionate homage to her.

By Pratibha & Jigyasa