This past weekend, Pandit Mahadev Shastri, the priest from our local temple, came home once again to do the shanti havan for Mom’s second death anniversary. His respect for Mom is unabashed and abiding, a fact that makes him visit our home every year since her passing. As he busied himself in making the “Om” symbol on the puja thaali, my eyes fell on the lavender dhoop batti he had brought with him. I wasn’t sure if he knew that lavender was Mom’s favorite flower, but was it just a coincidence? I like to think not. Her picture was by our side, adorned with a marigold garland. I put the tilak on her forehead as Panditji guided me along.
He started the ceremony with a brief sermon, recalling Mom’s virtues. Her grace and dignity, her service to the neighborhood we live in, her ever smiling face, her strength even in challenging times, and how she cared for others so selflessly.
“They say you can never pay off a mother’s debt in your entire lifetime,” he said.
“Maa hee aapka nirmaan karti hai,” he said.
(“She is your creator, the one who brought you into this life.”)
The English translation does not capture the poetic beauty of the words in Hindi: the creator (“Maa”) being contained in the creation (“Nirmaan”).
“The one who cared for you and nurtured you so selflessly, who put you above herself,” he continued. “She is the first one who taught you the meaning of love, of unconditional love, who toiled to give you a good life, who revelled in your achievements, who continued to worry about your safety and security even as you grew older and created your own life. So no, one can never repay a mother’s debt.”
I was transported to a story I had chanced upon recently that only reinforced what Panditji said.
A man asked Prophet Muhammad: “Whom should I honor most?”
The Prophet replied: “Your Mother.”
“And who comes next?” asked the man.
The Prophet replied: “Your Mother.”
“And who comes next?” asked the man.
The Prophet replied: “Your Mother.”
“And who comes next?” asked the man.
The Prophet replied: “Your Father.”
Clearly, the love and honor of mothers is timeless, borderless knowledge.
Panditji then went on to talk about how many parents are unhappy these days because of their children, children who don’t care for them as they age, and how fortunate and at the same time unfortunate we are that old age homes are on the rise in India.
Little did he know that the next day, to honor Mom, I had volunteered to provide lunch for 550 residents of a home called Earth Saviours Foundation.
Rashi, my dear friend, had spoken to me about Earth Saviours Foundation many months ago, as a place where abandoned senior citizens, young adults, people with mental illnesses and developmental disabilities were brought, to rehabilitate them and give them a place of shelter.
We had decided to go there on December 27th, to sponsor a meal in Mom’s memory, and for Rashi to donate blankets and medicines to celebrate her birthday that day.
And what a kaleidoscope of emotions it triggered.
I guess it’s a self-intuitive idea that there is immense joy in giving rather than receiving, when you know it would go so far to touch someone’s life.
As Rashi & I walked into the Foundation’s shelter, there was festive music playing from the loudspeakers. A Christmas corner had been made by the residents, replete with a tree, and a small cottage. The residents were milling around, some working in the kitchens and the grounds, some soaking in the sun, and some inside their dormitories, catching up with each other.
Mr. Ravi Kalra, the founder, greeted us at the entrance, despite being busy with several other guests who had come to donate to the shelter. As soon as he learnt that I was a psychologist he requested if I would be willing to speak to a few residents who were in dire need of counseling.
And so I spoke to Meena (all names of residents changed), a 35 year old who was rescued by the Haryana police 3 months ago, abandoned on the streets by her family. She had finished her undergraduate degree in Psychology via distance learning and was figuring out what vocation to pursue. She had dabbled with some odd jobs before the turn of events three months ago. Meena spoke about her anxiety, the fear of continued abandonment by her family, who had promised to take her back in January but continued to stall even now, her dreams of working in a job, and to live the life of her choice. She spoke of her recovery since she got to the shelter and how the care and compassion there had nursed her back to life.
There was Mr. Bhasin, an IFS officer, rescued from the streets after he suffered a significant stress-induced psychotic episode. He was completely dissociated and disoriented, and his responses to my questions were incoherent and completely out of context. He was dissociated from his stressful past, and only remembered details from the shelter, where he has now lived for 5 years. He knew the residents’ name, the names of the several rescued dogs in the shelter, but ask him anything that was a part of his life from before 5 years ago, and you would not get a relevant or coherent response.
“Where did you live before you came here?” I asked
“Hollywood, Los Angeles,” he replied, a place he had never lived in.
“What’s the name of this gorgeous dog?”
“Rani.” This he got right.
And so details of any historic events were lost in the dark recesses of his mind, inaccessible to any of us. Psychotropic medicines had only made him sleepy, and he was gradually taken off them. He had still made a remarkable recovery in his ability to be functional again, while interacting with the staff and the residents, and doing the work that was allocated to him.
Manoj was standing in a corner alone, his furrowed brow very perceptible from a distance. He didn’t remember how old he was when I asked him. But he narrated how he had finished his MBA in 2010, had done a few odd jobs and 4 months ago was rescued by the police when they found him in a dishevelled, distressed state. He did not speak about his family, and provided sketchy details of his work history. Again, significant trauma had blotted out parts of his memory, rendering him incapable of imagining a meaningful future again at least for now.
In between these diverse conversations and interactions, lunch was made ready. The staff had asked Rashi and me to serve the residents in their plates as they were seated in rows and circles, chatting with each other. When lunch is sponsored by donors it is a lavish spread, they told us. There was poori, chholey, aloo, rice, and kheer. I took my shoes off, and busied myself in serving the kheer to each and every of them. There were smiles on some faces, blank looks on others, murmurs and gestures when words couldn’t be formed comprehensibly.
I asked Mr. Kalra how many of these residents go back home. He said when they get better, some do leave to be back with their families, but quite a few continue to remain here, finding their comfort and joy amidst strangers who later become family. The “family” at the foundation treated them with more love and compassion than their own flesh and blood it seems. This rainbow community is proof that strangers are just family waiting to happen.
The dormitories had rows of single beds, all neatly laid out with multi-colored blankets. Pictures of deities & gurus were arranged over some spaces, and there was sunlight streaming into those rooms. I saw some residents with severe disabilities and limited mobility lying in bed, but most of the others were up and about, actively engaging in some chores or the other. This was one large home where comfort and solace was found in sharing each other’s suffering.
As I stood in the middle of the large courtyard, taking the sounds and sights in, I saw hope spring up.
These people were well cared for, they were treated with respect when their own stripped off their dignity for whatever unfathomable reason. They were taken into the fold of this family, with the numbers growing from strength to strength.
There were also 45-50 abandoned old dogs who roamed through the dorms, making it their home too now. The staff of 200 people were seen encouraging everyone, delegating tasks to them so that they felt they had something purposeful to do. There was not one corner of that space that was not accessible to these residents.
This might seem like a cliché, but soaking in the afternoon’s experiences reinforced one thing for the nth time: Gratitude is a great attitude to live life with.
I reflected on my journey of the past few years. How fortunate I have been to be blessed with the most loving, affectionate, selfless parents who put their three daughters above themselves, so that we could stand on our own feet, making our way into the world. And how that imbued in me the unshakeable desire that taking care of my parents would always be my first priority, wherever life took me. Blessed are those who have families that nurture them and who in turn can be nurtured.
But I couldn’t help but think of the many out there who may not be as fortunate to receive the love of a family, as I saw yesterday. Whether it’s just a dysfunctional relationship, trauma and adversity, or any other life situation that leads to so much suffering, there are so many who bear harsh wounds of the life they have known.
As Mr. Kalra walked us to the door of their large office, teeming with workers and volunteers, one of the residents who didn’t speak much kept touching his and my feet as a sign of respect. I used to be uncomfortable with that gesture earlier but someone told me that I should graciously accept the gesture and give my blessings. Which I did. This resident, and a volunteer, walked along with us to the car, waving a goodbye to us as we drove off.
I caught myself with a lump in my throat, wondering how they see visitors like us walk into their lives, only to leave an hour or two later. Kindness, a blessing, a smile, or a few words of encouragement could take these people so far along in surviving in a world that had been so cruel to them. And it brought home another lesson that Mom lived. I can just hear her say this: “That’s the least we could do.”
“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others,” said Mahatma Gandhi.
I know Mom lived by these words and I hope I will too, for as long as I live. For, isn’t living about loving and giving?
