The Bangle Box

There was a wooden dwarf almirah in Shantaben's bedroom. A handwoven throw, usually blue or burgundy was placed on its top, with a smaller box, and another crochet mat on the box. This two-level counter served as her mandir. A beautiful sculpture of Shiv-Parvati made of black stone was placed on the raised area. Several other photographs and idols made of brass and copper, arranged there, were attended to twice a day with incense and praying beads. For years, I had no clue that the raised level was actually a box. That too a bangle box! 

One day, I just happened to visit Ba in the afternoon, not usual on school days, and found her dusting and cleaning the almirah top. She had brought down all the idols, sculptures and photographs on a tray scrubbing each of them from every corner and crevice. The throw and mat were kept aside for washing. The box lay uncovered for me for the very first time. Of course I had to see what was inside. I took it down imagining that it contained older, yellowed or damaged pictures of gods and goddesses. I opened the box; my eyes had never shone brighter and I never grinned broader. Inside the rather rustic looking heavy bangle box, were three rows of dreamy clinks and tinkles.

Shantaben had a fascinating collection of bangles - glass, lac, ceramic, metal - she had them all. Beautiful colours, glossy textures, delicate etches - the collection was already decades old when I discovered them. I had always seen her wearing gold bangles, so this box was quite a revelation. She told me she colour coordinated bangles with her wardrobe before she got married, but later as household chores increased, the breakable ones became difficult to manage. So in fear of losing the beauties, she stored them away in this wooden bangle box. She placed the box in a place where no one would touch it, specially not her rowdy grandchildren. 

Ba knew I had a severe crush on jewelry, and she must have melted seeing my eyes glisten more for her bangles than they did for her matar kachoris; she gifted me a pair of electric blue glass bangles from the box. My happiness knew no bounds and kept wearing them at every given chance, even with my dresses and skirts! Over the years, she brought out a few every time her mandir was dusted and gave them all to me. She also bought new sets from her Ahmedabad visits. I am sure she was proud of that fact that her grand daughter shared the same love for bangles as she did; and she indulged me to no end. Then came the day when she handed over the bangle box to me, with all the remaining contents. Like I said in the last post, Shantaben was thrifty even with her words; all she said was - ''tu raakh'' (you keep it). With those two words, I inherited over fifty years of romance in one mahogany box. 

Shantaben's bangles were so used to the sheltered life that they could not withstand the cruel world of concrete. A few ceramic ones still remain in my mother's drawer, but the rest only in my mind. The bangle box owns a proud corner of my living room, as a beautiful stand for a lamp. 

Her World, Her Rules

Shantaben Mehta lived in her own world, the one she created over the years, carefully adding and subtracting but never changing its basic fabric. She was an extremely resilient woman who did not let negativity touch her aura. Like any other family, hers too had its share of ups and downs, showdowns, trivial issues blown out of proportion, messed up power equations, hatred, sacrifice, hopelessness; and everything that comes with this list. But none of this could upset her calm demeanour. There was nothing that could stop her from going about her regular routine - daily, seasonal, annual. Not once have I seen her brooding. No, she was not super-human, neither was she a saint. She never really took the assertive steps of ordering around and take on the role of the rule making, punishment giving matriarch. In my opinion, had she done that, things probably would have been smoother and no member of her family would dare to over-step their boundary. But Shantaben was not an autocratic person and perhaps was too optimistic, perhaps even Utopian, in the fast greying world. She never criticised anyone and was fascinatingly unaffected by harsh criticism herself. No matter what was being said, or who said it - Shantaben went on with her life, never looking back; and not even on the sides.

She expressed very little and was also extremely stringent even with positive expressions of affection and humour. But was never unpleasant, never bitter. Her home was open to all but she would not really place a welcome mat outside. And that was because she thought it was understood and done for. She hated to waste, perhaps even words. She never spoke a word more than what was required (according to her).

Shantaben was a million miles away from the stereotypical Indian mother, who cried and cried and sacrificed every cell of her body for her thankless family. Someone who would rather die than witness two of her children severing all ties or someone who would give it all up and live in some ashram before property became an issue of discussion and debate. No, Shantaben was nothing like a Leela Chitnis or a Nirupa Roy!

Shantaben Mehta firmly believed on the principle of self-preservation. She was extremely self-sufficient and needed no help for leading her regular life of shopping, cooking, hosting, satsangs, temple meets, visits, TV dinners and even travel. In the 1990s when she lived alone, there was nothing that was omitted from the above list. She even made all the seasonal and festive delicacies for herself and her neighbours. Attented weddings, went pandal hopping, lead a full life. Her life remained unchanged, unfazed.  Her world, untouched.