Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Surinder Jandu

Mothers Day Submissions Continued

May 17, 2006

A MOTHER’S SACRIFICE

Surinder Jandu

I cannot find a finer example of a mother’s sacrifice than my great-grand –mother. This is a true story told to me by her-self and confirmed by many other family members.

My grand dad Hary Singh died in his early twenties when my dad Karam Singh was only a couple of years old. There was a conspiracy behind his death because some older people could not tolerate his intelligence. These people had left their families behind in India to work in Assam, an Iceland in the east of the country. Biram Singh asked his son Hary Singh to join him in Assam to work alongside him. Hary Singh was known to be very bright from his childhood. He invented several things at work to develop faster growth and the security of the place. He invented a combination lock for the safe which fired shots at the thieves trying to steal the money. His boss promoted him to the senior position, to supervise much older people. They mixed poison in his food and he became very ill. Biram Singh brought his son back home where he died a slow death.

My great grand mother Thakri refused to accept her son’s death. Hary Singh was his parents’ only child whom they loved dearly. For generations, they had only one son carrying their name forward and longed to have a bigger family. Now their only son was leaving them. His teenage wife with a baby was devastated. His father Biram Singh was shattered.

When they put his body on a pyre and put fire to it, his mother Thakri jumped into the fire. Every one struggled to get her half burned body out. She was lucky to survive this ordeal. When she gained consciousness, she cursed them for saving them and said she wanted to die with her son. Every one was worried about her state of mind and watched over her all the time.

One day she secretly took an axe from the workshop, took it in both hands and cut open her stomach with it. She let out a sharp scream before fainting. People rushed immediately and called a doctor. Her wounds were stitched on time and she survived this as well. Thakri was determined to kill herself to be with her son.

One day she saw her son in a dream. He said he was going to be born in the same village, in a certain pot-maker’s family at a certain day and time. She could see him there if she wished but he would only survive for five hours. He also told her not to commit suicide and live for his baby son Karam Singh.

Thakri could hardly wait when she would see her son. She was hovering around the pot maker’s house long before the time. The time seemed to have stopped for her that she was so impatient. All sorts of thoughts came into her mind that the child was only living for five hours and if he died in her lap, she would be blamed of doing something to him.  She finally picked up her courage and stepped inside the house.

“I happened to pass this side of the village today and thought I would buy a pot for the house.” Thakri explained.

“Welcome Bebe (Madam). We are fortunate that you came to our house. We have not seen you for a long time. Come and sit inside for a cup of tea. There is plenty of time to see the pots.” They greeted her cheerfully.

“This is exactly what I wanted- to wait for the birth.” She thought. She sat sipping tea with anticipation- her heart beating fast. She was eager to hold her son-Hary Singh in real flesh. Her mind was travelling back and forth –thinking about the time when she held him for the first time after birth. He must be looking the same. She would recognise him at once. Her soul kept searching hard for her son.

Suddenly there was a wave of happiness and sound of congratulations. The mid-wife came out with the happy news of a baby boy arriving into the family. Everybody cheered and sweets distributed.

Thakri congratulated the family with her heart pounding and wished the baby a very long life.

Thakri asked hesitantly, “if you don’t mind, can I look at the baby?”

“Of course not-why would we mind. Your feet came to the house and brought the good news.” And they put the baby in her lap.

As soon as she set her eyes on him, she forgot to blink. The baby was starring straight into her eyes. She felt special kind of warmth and closeness that there was no doubt in her mind that she was holding her own son, Hary Singh. The time seemed to stand still while their souls met and a special bond was formed with their flow of love. She wished to stay like this for ever but suddenly she remembered that he was going to die. Her son Hary Singh was going to leave her for the second time.

Thakri gave the baby back and slowly walked towards her home- her head bowed down. Then she looked towards the sky and let out a big scream, “Why God----Why?” until she could say no more. Suddenly a special kind of peace and satisfaction took over her as if God had spoken to her. There was a certain realisation that her son was not hers any more-for he had different set of parents every time he took birth and God knows how many times he took birth and how many more parents he would make and leave. She realised that her son Hary Singh would not be waiting for her if she killed herself.

Thakri thought it could be her son helping her to come back after her suicide attempts. She decided to forget killing herself and concentrate on looking after her remaining family.

Thakri got her young daughter-in-law married again to another male in the family and took responsibility of bringing up her grand-son Karam Singh. Biram Singh and Thakri got Karam Singh married at the age of nine years to a beautiful girl in the nearby village named Ishri and brought her home. Biram Singh and Thakri decorated Ishri in new clothes and gold jewellery all the time. If she lost anything while playing, the new ones were made at once.  Karam Singh and Ishri played together without the knowledge that they were husband and wife until they were in their teens. They became proud parents of four daughters and two sons. I was the second youngest daughter of Karam Singh and Ishri.

Badi Maa (Elder mum) Thakri used to sit me in her lap and tell me stories. She showed me all the burned marks and cut scars on her body. She told me that she had died before at the age of 90 years but came back. She said she saw what happened after death and where and how people are taken to the other side. She said when she ran into difficulties on the other side, the good deeds done in this world came to her rescue. When she reached the destination, Dharm-raj (The God of death) opened his big book and found that there was another Thakri in the same village they wanted and she must be sent back. She was given another forty years to live. So when her body was ready to be taken out for cremation, she started moving. She was taken out of the coffin into the bed.

She knew when she was going to die. Her grey hair started to turn black; her eye-sight improved and she could thread a needle; and she had full set of natural teeth, which were flat at the top like our back teeth.

I was about eight years old when she died. My dad asked me to read verses from our Holy Book by her side. My dad asked her if she felt like eating anything and she wished to eat a laddoo (Indian Sweet). The laddoo was brought and put a little in her mouth followed by Amrit (Holy water). My whole family watched around her when she took her last breaths.

My great grand mother’s body was taken out for a funeral with a pomp and show. My eldest brother’s three year son was ringing bell when she was taken out through the village. Mixed dry fruit and coins were thrown over her body and distributed amongst the poor. She was a great-great-grand-mother and lived up to 130 years. A small gold step ladder was made with four steps and put on her big toe to commemorate four generations she had lived. This gold step ladder was given to the water bearer before her body was put on the pyre to be cremated.

The water-bearer has special duties and responsibilities at the funerals and weddings.

Surinder Jandu

surinderjandu@hotmail.com