I never imagined my ma-in-law would make her appearance in this column but she literally wrote herself into the script by falling very ill and actually being hospitalised. She had often cajoled me to write her life’s story and I had an acute case of guilt pangs that I had not done so. But first things first. I put in a kick-ass performance as a dutiful Bharatiya bahu in the best tradition of Ekta Kapoor’s serials. I made her dinner with my own two hands (remember, the hands only love to play with the TV remote) and decorously wore a sari for a visit to the hospital. I even went the whole hog and retrieved my long hibernating mangalsutra. Of course, I was looking like an over-decorated Christmas tree but, it was done with the noble intention of cheering up the old bird. In fact, I was actually feeling like Tulsi Virani as I helped her have the meal and propped up the pillows.

My ma-in-law in the kind of woman who is primeval and nurturing, like some kind of universal earth mother. While it is very comforting to have such a woman by your side, it is also a bit overwhelming, for she is the original drama queen and takes the wind out of your sails without you even realising it. When she’s around, she’s always holding court and you can’t put in a word even sideways. She is a personality with layers and you are likely to be in tears trying to unpeel her. A bundle of contradictions, she would be as tough as a betel nut or as soft as marshmalows, she could be dour or mischievous, exacting or indulgent. Just take your pick.

There’s this general notion that mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law exist on extreme opposite ends of the family spectrum and can barely endure each other. A new bride’s worst nightmare is not the marriage night but the morning after with the ma-in-law in the kitchen. All that mutual ill-will arises because they are both in love with the same man – the son/hubby. The older woman feels she has been upstaged, that her beloved offspring has been yanked away from under her very nose and her place as someone calling the shots dreadfully undermined. She tries to compensate for this by becoming frosty, browbeating the enemy, criticising her culinary skills and generally making her feel as if she has transgressed or sitting on a bed of nettles. This is, of course, the worst case scenario. Most often, the arrival of the first grandchild sets off a miraculous turnaround, with both burping the baby and the daughter-in-law relying more and more on the older woman’s common sense and stock of traditional cures for the baby’s colds and colic.

My first impressions of ma-in-law still have the ability to make me salivate. In case you’re wondering why, it’s because the first day I was at her home, she made divine finger-licking egg curry to die for. It was so typical of her. No formalities, and subtly letting me know who’s the boss in the kitchen. She also said she approved not my academic achievements, my looks or pedigree – but my thick, shiny hair. She said she liked the way it blew about as I rode behind her son’s scooter. Which ma-in-law would say that? Don’t you spot a poet in there? That’s when I fell in love with her, and decided to put up with all her idiosyncracies.

If you want to understand my ma-in-law, you have to know the whole history of Bollywood down the years. In fact, it is the loyalty and passion of legions of fans like her who are responsible for the robust health of Bollywood’s film industry. As a feisty eight year old, she openly declared her love for thespian Ashok Kumar, and at eleven, she was married to one who uncannily looked like one. She identifies all her children (no easy task, there being eight of them) as different star lookalikes and is forever nagging her sons to get into shape so they can beat the baddies. I got into her good books simply on the strength of my ability to discuss if Dev Anand was a bigger star than Rajesh Khanna, Helen a better vamp than Bindu, or who was the more convincing ma-in-law – Lalita Pawar or Nirupa Roy. Saddled with squealing infants, she still made it to every first day, first show, no less. She was very indignant when the teacher reported her sons ran off from class to see movies on the sly. “I would have taken you myself, wouldn’t I?” she asked her offspring in injured tones. And because she was so filmi, she gladly let her children marry anyone they fell in love with, overcoming religious and cultural differences with the panache of a true blue cosmopolitan.

All this gushy talk may lull you into believing all is hunky dory between me and the old gal. Far from it. We have fought some titanic battles, she and I, with both sides refusing to give in. The most memorable was the incident of the perm. Early in my marriage, I suddenly swept into a parlour and had my hair permed. It was a long, tedious process, the chemicals smelt like bad eggs and, at the end of it, I was staring at a woman (me) who looked like she had been electrocuted. But, I felt energised and ready for anything, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. But I had little time to celebrate. By the time I got my frizzy head home, ma-in-law was already there, having been somehow mysteriously in the know about my hairy experiment. Beady-eyed and lantern-jawed, she grated on and on about the enormity of what I’d done. No bahu of that family was going around with a headful of hair like that, how I was dragging the family name in the mud, and what was I thinking? I gave back as good as I got. It was my hair, my head, and I was jolly well going to decide what to do with it. I was, I reminded her brusquely, not picked up at a cattle fair. And, most of all, I was a sixties’ child, a free spirit who followed her instincts and whose favourite song was Imagine by John Lennon. She dug in harder, and like the FBI, had a stake-out at my house, trying her best to implicate me in a crime. At the end of seven agonizing hours, she went away, extracting a promise from me to get my hair straightened ASAP. Well, a few days later, my perm got less frizzy and I was back with my old straight hair and a new found respect for my adversary.

But, in many ways, ma-in-law has been a great friend and ally, a sheltering rock in the storm and an anchor in the choppy sea of life. Once my older son swallowed a big fish bone and was choking on it. He was two years old. I started screaming for help as his face got redder and redder. Then my ma-in-law took him on her lap, hooked in her index finger and thumb, and brought out the fish-bone. Again, my son got an ugly gash on his forehead. I held him as he bled and rushed to a near by doctor on my bare feet. Of all the relatives at home, it was ma-in-law who followed me and held my hand as my son’s forehead was stitched. And, by the way, both of us are talkative, love a good joke, to relive past memories and steamed hilsa. I remember she and I sitting in companionable silence on the dining table, chewing off a giant fish head cooked with papaya. That was one of our ‘aha’ moments.

Through all her jokes and laughter, my ma-in-law never forgot the hard life she had lived. Married at eleven, she had a mother-in-law who loved to throw brass pots at her on the slightest pretext. When she was sleeping in a Dacca bungalow with my father-in-law, a giant badger lost his footing on the ceiling boards and fell whack! onto her tummy. She stopped menstruating, and worse, did not get in the family way for nine years. Then, when she was away in Shillong, the wily mother-in-law brought home a new bride for her son. In true-blue Bollywood ishtyle, ma-in-law took off her chain and bangles and sent them to her souten. And in another unbelievable acknowledgement to Bollywood, she promptly got pregnant. The idea of having children was so wonderful, she told me, that she went on to beget all nine of them. She has taught me that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. She has embraced tragedy with open arms, accepting with dignity the deaths of two sons, a daughter and her husband. Now in her eighties and a diabetic to boot, she will not slip a chance to cram potato chips into her mouth, or take a sip of Coca Cola when no one is looking. She celebrated her birthday recently, and blew out the candles, cackling like a delighted hen. She continues to give unsolicited advice, repeat jokes, fine tune her hypochondriac act and blush at the sight of Ashok Kumar in a late night movie. Today, I have nothing but affection and regard for this remarkable lady and am honoured to be her daughter-in-law.

– indrani_raimedhi@reddiffmail.com

website: www.iraimedhi.com

Indrani Raimedhi