My weekend date

Meet Tulsi Kamble. She’s all of 76 years young, and I date her every Diwali. Without fail. Come hale, high water or terror. And as always, we caught up for ‘chahaa’ on Saturday.

Here’s how it all began: Towards the late nineties, for a few years, I used to live in Powai, a Mumbai suburb. Tulsi used to work with me as, what we in Mumbai call, a ‘chhutta bai’. She’d arrive sharp at seven in the morn, do her number, and leave at around eight. Usually housemaids are ‘blind spots’… we know they are at work, but we don’t really take notice of them. (Unless you are one Shiney Ahuja, but let’s not even go down that road.)

However, what got me chatting with Tulsi was that she was the most unusual maid I had seen or hired. A weak, under-nourished, tottering elderly woman (most colony residents had refused to hire her), but always full of life and beans. Her eyes sparkling with joie-de-vivre, reflecting and spreading happiness and energy. She used to be more like a nagging granny to me than a maid. I cannot recount how many times she gave me an earful. For the odd cigarette, for leaving my used clothes all over the place, for messing up the kitchen, for not waking up in time to open the door for her. On one occasion, she nearly spanked me for yawning too loudly (in my defence, I had had a particularly late night). But almost always, she would surprise me with a plate of warm and delicious kandha poha.

Intrigued by her affectionately fearless behaviour, I ventured to know more about her life, and for her need to slog in her sunset years. This is what I learnt, in her broken Hindi and my broken Marathi: Tulsi had been widowed at a young age. Her two older daughters had married off and were gone. Her only son had dumped her. And the child she lived with, her youngest daughter, suffered from a serious case of both, physical and mental deformity. Tulsi had no option but to work, and work hard, not only to run her meager slum hutment, but to also pay for her child’s medical bills (which, as you can imagine, were always hurtful). And added to that, she was battling her own fears for her daughter’s future after she was gone.

What shook me to the core was this: here was this woman, living the worse life imaginable at this old age, and yet so full of life and joy and affection. It’s quite eye-popping when you imagine that we, the more privileged, get hassled and rattled at the most trivial things. Tulsi taught me the greatest lesson of my life, one that no teacher ever did: Keep your chin up, man, no matter what shit life throws at you. Because that’s the only way to live, to really live.

Some years later I said good-bye to Powai, and to Tulsi. My saddest memory is of her weeping uncontrollably as I wished her the final adieu. And my bitterest memory is of rebuking the almighty for bringing pain and suffering to the good people in this world.

But I swore to myself that this little bond we shared will not go away. That, every year, at least once, I would establish contact with Tulsi and ask her out for a date. And I ear-marked Diwali at that period. So that I must never forget. And that tradition lives on.

So then why am I sharing this story with you? Because here’s the other lesson I learnt: it doesn’t take much to bring a few moments of joy in the lives of people who are less blessed than us. Tulsi’s huge, huge excitement and exhilaration when she meets me, is to die for. She has never expected financial help from me, nor has asked for it. What matters to her is that I still care. I care that she’s a human being with feelings, I care that she exists, I care enough to take the time out to see her. Even if only once a year. The joy that I feel when I meet her is probably many times greater than hers. Because it helps me wash away the sins and follies I commit for the rest of the year. She, without realising it, plays the role of my conscience cleaner. And I thank her for it.

I am sure you do your own little charities, and you must. But often, more than financial help, it’s this little demonstration of affection that counts a lot to the people who the world has left behind. The children of the lesser god, so to speak. Tulsi makes me feel better as a human being, and I make her believe in humanity. I ensure she does not get overtly cynical about the world that clearly has no interest whatsoever in her. What can be a greater bond and exchange than that?

And yup, as long as both of us are alive, our Diwali date will go on. I would not miss that for anything.

Happy Diwali to all of you.