The Hindu Business Line : <I>Aai,</I> are you well?

There was speculation that Aai and her son might have gone to their village, if not on a pilgrimage. But that did not satisfy any, as then Vikas Rao would have told us.

We call her "Aai (mother)". She is 90 years old, say her three sons living in Borivili. Most Mondays she is there at the Lord Shiva temple, offering prayers to her dear, Panduranga (for Aai all gods are Panduranga).

From a distance, one can catch her wooden, walking stick sounding a tick-tack on the tarred road as the lady wobbles to the temple.

She is as regular as the 5.30 a.m. BEST bus to the Borivili station from the Shanti Ashram depot in the LIC Colony. There is an early morning freshness to her, like the hot buns ferried on cycles by Bihari bhaiyas for delivery at homes and hotels.

An early bath is a must for Aai before stepping into the temple where she lights a diya in front of the many gods and goddesses. For about 30 minutes, she sits silently and then goes back home, some 15 minutes away. She is thinly built and her loose skin fits her like the old, navvari sarees she drapes herself in. It is a routine which has never had a break.

One can see the frequent visitors offering a namaste to Aai with some spending time chatting with her. "Aai, barra hai ka (Aai, are you well)," is the common query and the lady will reply with a crunchy smile (all her teeth are still intact): "Ho (yes)," and bless them.

Vikas Rao, her third son, some times accompanies her; mostly, with his friends, Vikas Rao will do two rounds of the LIC Colony. "After her temple visit, she will make tea for her and her college going granddaughter. Then she sinks into an old easy chair overseeing a window and spend most of her time lost in thought. Rarely will she butt into family chatter.

"After lunch, she will have a nap and be back in the evening at her easy chair. Many things have happened to her in her long life but that she never shares with us. My daughter, Paru, is her favourite. At home, only Paru has time for my mother; not even myself," Vikas Rao has told this writer.

For me, Vikas Rao, working at a legal firm in the Fort area, was the first of the few friends when one started on morning walks. One day, Rao took me home and one touched the feet of Aai. We talked for some time and then Aai toddled over to the kitchen to make tea despite protests.

On one visit, she gave me poli-bhaji and the poli was as soft as her voice.

"She can sing well, specially the abhangs of Tukaram. If she had been trained, she would have been better," remarked Vikas Rao as one ate the poli-bhaji with relish. It is now a month. Aai and Vikas Rao are not to be seen. There was speculation that they might have gone to their village, if not on a pilgrimage. But that did not satisfy any, as then Vikas Rao would have told us.

The priest at the Lord Shiva was the most troubled. Aai had become a timer in his life; if she were early, he would get up and open the temple. A few days ago, one heard the first whispers taking the air. But there was nothing sure about them.

One morning we noticed Vikas Rao making his way down the road. The laughter and the loud call wishing all a "Hari Om" were absent. He nodded his head and walked off.

On an afternoon, one bumped into Vikas Rao in a Churchgate-bound local. He came and sat next to me. We did not talk till the train reached Churchgate.

"Why don't we have a cup of tea," suggested Vikas Rao and we went over to an Irani restaurant. The waiter placed two cups of tea and went his way. We stared at each other, reluctant to break into words. "How is Aai," I asked to get rid of a gnawing fear.

Vikas Rao typed out the story for me like an experienced reporter. Aai lived by turns (of three months) with her three sons as they had decided to split equally the cost to the company of maintaining her. The old lady accepted the idea. "She never said a word, " Vikas Rao told me.

But the business agreement was getting to be a financial inconvenience for the families. The wives (but never the children) could not get along with Aai.

"This is something I have not been able to understand as she simply minded her business," said Vikas Rao. Sometime this year, the three brothers met and decided to send Aai to an Old Age Home near Virar.

"She will be near us and yet be away. We can also share the costs, " said one of them. Vikas Rao was a signatory to the agreement. Her family kept the agreement away from Aai; but she had spent enough time living to suspect the deal.

On a Monday, after Aai came back from a visit to the Shiva temple, she was bundled into an air-conditioned tourist car and dropped at Virar. Her Panduranga had denied her.

Aai now lives alone at the Old Age Home. When her sons left she blessed them, intoning a Panduranga.

"I have not been able to take it. I have told my wife that I am joining my mother at the Home. I am going to the office to tell them it is my last day. If you want to meet me, you will have to come to Virar."

He gave me the address and phone number and walked out of my life.