Being neighbourly
Growing up, my sister and I were latch-key kids. My shy sibling would get an hour before me from school, walk to our door and knock softly. Our neighbour, Mrs. Thakkar, would be in her apartment waiting to hear the knock on the door across a tiny corridor.
Short, stout, fair, with a 100W smile that dimmed the shine of her silver, long hair, Mrs. Thakkar would come with the keys, open the door for my sister and then proceed to her afternoon nap.
Her husband was there, but we rarely saw him. Her son stayed with her and had a mild-mannered disposition. Her daughter and granddaughter visited occasionally from another town and we had our grandparents and even great-grandparents alive, healthy but living in villages where they preferred to be around their peers. But for some weird reason Thakkar aunty, seemed like our grandparent. She was around more for us than she was around for her grand-daughter, more for us, than our own grandparents.
After her nap, she would come home unannounced. Inspect the house for any casualties, fire, smoke, I don’t know what she looked for. After her walk of screen she may choose to sit, chat or if she felt like it asked me to get the carrom board.
I do not remember most of what she said. She spoke broken Marathi and over the years I managed to learn a little broken Gujrathi. Last week she passed away and I felt like I lost my grandparent. I remember my first encounter with this wild berry from another land called Litchee. It was a rare sighting for an 8-year old in Pune in 1996(ish). My parents had forgotten to leave the keys at hers and she invited me over. It was summer, so she made me this Litchi drink, NOT from concentrate, WITH fruit chunks. Saw a litchi yesterday and thought of her. She also introduced us to marshmallows that some of her international relatives had sent her as she told us tales from far off lands. Camping is going to be a little tough this summer.
She had an obsession with white, white sarees, litchees, marshmellows, white pieces on the carrom board, and she even proudly shared a random trivia that even the lice that would occasionally show up in her head would be snow-white. My mother discouraged us from trying to validate the fact knowing very well where my curiosity would likely lead me. I guess I do remember a few things she said.
Her husband passed away one day and she was devastated for a week but carrom resumed soon. She never made us feel like we were away from our grandparents, or our parents, for that matter when they were out and about doing their day jobs. She was our silent, watchful guardian. I think in some cultures, more than others, neighbours are extended family, minus the strings and they are deeply under-rated in modern society and are painfully vanishing in nuclear societies.
I have been blessed by some of the best neighbors one could get in a lifetime, including the ones I have. We sold the house I grew up in but I made a point to see her every-time I visited back home. Except, this one time…
Anyways, I have to head back and schedule a paint-the-fence party with my current neighbours. RIP Thakkar aunty, you will be missed! I am certain you are “Majja mah”!
Readers, save the neighbours! Atleast, the good ones! And enjoy a litchee drink this summer!
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