MEMORIES

Down the Memory Lane

My Sister and Me

BY RANBIR MANHAS

Her first Photograph after marriage.

My sister Kalyana Devi (Rathore) breathed her last on the midnight of May 2, 2008 after a brief illness. She was 65 and is survived by husband, Daya Krishan Rathore (Kotwal), four daughters-Neena, Rashim, Poonam and Navita and son Chander Shekhar, all married. She also left behind an old mother (92), Yasshodha Devi (Manhas).

As is usual all women complain of back ache and joint ache and so would my sister complain about for which she was getting specialized treatment at the hands of eminent Ortho-surgeons of Jammu like Dedar Singh, A.Q Salaria and Lovy Padha. Occasionally she would consult Doctors at New Delhi also as a routine. But this time when she came down from Bhadarwah in the month of November, it was for the treatment of nasal bleeding that could not be controlled at Bhadarwah even after five days of regular oozing. In Jammu, however the renowned ENT specialist, Dr. Sunil Kotwal treated the problem successfully. For bones she was referred by Dr. Ashok Parihar to Dr. Gulhati at Batra Hospital, Jammu. During examination the eminent orthopedic surgeon suspected some abnormal shade in her shoulder and suggested biopsy of the spot. Shockingly, the finding was positive. For confirmation and treatment, she was immediately airlifted to Delhi and admitted in the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) where the experts confirmed the disease as malignant and declared that it had already crossed the third stage. After prescribing some medicines/ injections they advised us to shift the patient back home saying that the disease had become incurable. And their prediction came true. She survived for another three months and finally departed. Though she was not hospitalised, over a dozen of Doctors including Sunil Kotwal, Boby Kotwal, Ravinder Kotwal, Pritam Katoch, Mr. Manhas, Ajay Kotwal, Akriti Kotwal, Shilpi Kotwal did not leave any stone un-turned to rescue the patient from the clutches of the killing disease.

Being just two and a half years older than me, my association with her was closest than her other brothers like Sewa Ram and Ghanshyam Singh who were over a decade older and Inder Singh and sister Anjna who were 5 to 10 years younger to her.

Clad in cap and coat, Kalyana with younger brother, Ranbir.

Though I don’t remember our childhood except one thing that we would fight like cats with mother silencing us by sometimes even using the burning wood that she would take out from the fire place in the kitchen, yet the memories of later days remains moving in my mind like a film on the screen of a Cinema Hall.

She was married at a tender age of 14. At that time I was a student of 8th class. I don’t remember anything about her marriage. But one thing that carved an everlasting impression on my mind was her tears when we (my younger brother Inder and me) left her in her new home for the first time. Surrounded by women folk of the village (Udrana) in a corner when she looked towards us leaving the room, a stream of tears rolled down her cheeks that were enough to submerge the two younger brothers emotionally. Incidentally, it was the same corner of the lobby where her body was laid before her last journey. This time however there was a deep smile on her otherwise dead face instead of rolling tears in her eyes.

High School Bhadarwah being nearer to Udrana than Sartangal, my visits to my sister’s house were frequent unmindful of the fact that her in-laws could feel bad of it. But never in my life anybody from her family gave away an impression that we brothers were unwelcome guests there. On the contrary they gave us as warm affection as our own parents would be giving us. My visiting her house continued even during my college days. I vividly recall that my accompanying class fellows would also get the same warmth, which I used to get as a younger brother. I still remember that whenever she and her children came to Sartangal, the whole house would become alive with everybody feeling so enthusiastic. Bhadarwah-Sartangal was not connected by road those days and our father Zaildar Madho Lal would send his most trusted servant, Beeru with the beautiful most horse/ mare in the yard to take her to Sartangal. Many a time we (brothers) would go to bring her because this would give us the opportunity of a ride at least one way. Our residence would become still lively when she came along with her children who would move about chirping. But this did not live forever. With them getting married her coming to Sartangal became rare and when I shifted to Jammu my younger sister Anjna would tie Rakhi on my wrist on her behalf.

After performing her 10th day ritual when we decided to return home her daughters (my nieces) showed me some albums that have some memorable photographs of our childhood. The way she had arranged these photographs and those of my children speaks volumes about the affection that she had for me and my children.

Her Last Photograph with other family members.

My sister had a heart of a mother. Who ever came to condole her death spoke about her wisdom, affection and generosity. My brother-in-law (her husband), Kotwal Dayakrishan is called as savior of Doda. He is also known for his selfless nationalistic politics. But he wouldn’t have been able to do this all had my sister not stood behind him like a rock. During her life she cooked food and fed thousands of late night guests who would pour in during different agitations led by her husband. Today her all the children are well settled and credit of this goes to her only. As far their father, brimming with national spirit he had been more worried about the children of others than his own ones.

She was fond of reading and listening to music. Besides, she was fond of flowers and a huge number of flower plants artistically arranged in pots in her house speak volumes about her aesthetic taste. During her illness I wanted to play some songs of her taste for her, but with every passing day she grew weaker and her ailment stronger. Finally she lost her senses and I lost the opportunity to sooth her ears by the melody. This though is an irrelevant fact of life; it will keep my heart pinching whenever I will play those melodious songs. Zindgi Ke Safar Main Guzar Jate Hein Joh Muqam Woh Phir Nahin Aate, Woh Phir Nahin Aate, was one of the songs that she would often murmur and now after her death we have understood the meanings of this song that during her lifetime looked so simple and ordinary.

 She was fond of picnicking also. Whenever she came to Sartangal she would take all children of the family (her and our) to Ageli and Tipri where she would cook food for them and enjoy. Even at later stage she would cook in the nearby kitchen garden or the roof top and ask her married girls and their children to enjoy the outdoor feasting.  Some ten years ago when our cousin Bhagwan Singh Pathania passed away we went to Chamba to condole his death. At Dunera the bus stopped and asked the passengers to have their lunch.  We too had our packed lunch that the ladies opened to be served. I said I will not take in the bus. To this my sister said, “Let’s enjoy this food as if we were on a picnic. Who knows if we will find this opportunity of taking meals together again. Life is short and we should try to enjoy every bit of it”. Even then I did not care. Now when she is no more, I remember her words that life indeed is short and we will never have an opportunity of picnicking together again. We may like it or not but this is the law of nature which despite being merciful sometimes is cruel beyond limits. If our philosophy of Swarg is true then this is also true that she will have found a place there being a noble soul and when we also die she will be waiting for us in the Paradise with garlands of flowers in her hands and sweet smile in her eyes to receive us there. But when will that happen nobody knows. Till then our heart will keep beating in her memory with the prayer that her soul rest in peace.

“Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there, I don’t sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glints on snow.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there I did not die”.