Horemheb's Musings

First Published on 09 October, 2011

The first time we saw them was when Grandma Maami and her husband boarded the train at Palghat. Almost immediately, her husband got into a scuffle with the hot and rude foreigner lady in our compartment over her appropriating the window seats reserved by them. While the senior uncle got ballistic, with their hapless son helplessly trying to make peace, the old gentle lady kept her calm.

The second full day of the journey, while engaging in one of our conversations on Advaita, Mandukya Upanishad, the Matrix movie, and GTA San Andreas, Grandma Maami overheard our discussion on the Butterfly Dilemma and joined in, much to our joy. Apparently, a great follower of Ramana Maharshi and a disciple of Nochur Venkitaraman, she was reading some works on Advaita at the very moment of our discussion. The serendipity was too intense even to risk violating her husband’s strict orders not to talk to anyone. A pleasant conversation ensued, which could only be continued towards the end of her journey nearing Mathura. Here, we conversed freely on our travels, destinations, and matters of mutual interest. An intensely private and serene woman, she greatly reminded me of my maternal grandmother, who passed away several years ago.

However, the more prominent character of this story boarded the train that night at Coimbatore. Though her entry was rather subdued, the rest of the days and nights were dominated by this feisty old lady, whom we dubbed “Machine Gun Maami” for her rat-a-tat talkathon with the poor Grandma Maami.

In the previous blog, I mentioned how she terrorized several unreserved encroachers for daring to sit on the compartment floor blocking their access. This fiery temper came to full stride on the second night of our journey to New Delhi, the night when we passed through Maharashtra.

That night, several unreserved passengers fell victim to the sheer fury of this indomitable little old woman, who yelled and scolded the unreserved passengers who dared to sleep in the corridors, blocking the passage of these women to the toilet. She did have merit in what she was saying; after all, one is well aware of the several unscrupulous actions committed by unreserved passengers in harassing bona fide passengers. One particular person tried every trick in the rulebook—and then some—to ward off the scoldings of this Maami, but who stands a chance in front of Machine Gun Maami in full throttle? Sleep-deprived as I was, already cramped up in the Side Lower sleeper berth of an Indian Railways compartment that has always been prejudiced against people of loftier disposition, it was a night full of entertainment, making the journey more bearable.

This tirade continued throughout her journey, even until her departure stop at Mathura. Though at times she did seem to be an overbearing, unreasonable, and insensitive senile old lady, her final moments of interaction with us revealed glimpses of a loftier soul than we had imagined. While my friend, Jayan the Photographer, congratulated her on her bravery in handling those intruders, she responded with simple words that left us speechless and awestruck:

“Housewife aayirunthen. Full life naanoru Kaaidi aayirunthen. Ippo thaan viduthalai kedachathu.”
(“I have been a housewife all my life. Nearly all my life, I served the life of a prisoner. Now only have I secured my freedom.”)

Simple words from a simple woman, but they carried the depth and weight of a lifetime of truth. The story of every Indian woman—a life of servitude, first serving her parents, then her husband, and then her children. Having dutifully completed her penal servitude to what we believe was the maturity of her children as independent adults and the passing of her husband, who—while loving in his own way—was the enforcer of a harsh life of servitude for her, she was now unshackled by all such duties. She was finally free to live a life of her own, starting at roughly 70+.

Understanding this perspective, it is possible to empathize with why she had been a terror through this trip. A lifetime of suppressed rage and humiliation venting its way out towards those who threatened her few years of freedom and happiness. A lifetime of things unsaid finding its way out in a torrent of conversation that swept the gentle old Grandma Maami to the heights of exasperation. Empathize though we do with her, I am still thankful to Jayan that he chose to express his admiration only as the train chugged into Mathura Station. Else, we too might have fallen victim to Machine Gun Maami.