Amma and Sona

Amma and Sona work part time in our house. While Sona came late, Amma has been around for as long as we can remember.We often conjecture how old she is. She doesn't know. Her grandchildren who work in other houses of the colony think she's about 90 years old. But this we have been hearing for four years now. We don't ask why she continues to work -clean, wash, mop etc. at this age. It became clear to us long back. It keeps her active. It keeps her going - perhaps a way to make sure she is not made to feel redundant at home.

Amma is so old that she doesn't register my visits from Bombay. There is an ordinary expression on her face when she sees me, even after months. I always go hug her hoping to hear her say 'ay bibi aa gayi tu!' She just mummers things I don't understand. As I write this, I wonder, if she knows that I live elsewhere? I wouldn't be shocked if she doesn't. Or maybe she knows and just doesn't remember. Or forgets to remember. 

Amma is a petite old woman who has shrunk and hunched over the years. I always picture her wearing her white sari with a shirt and a pallu loosely hanging over her head. Her hands and face are beautifully wrinkled, her green veins bulge against the softened skin and eyes are kuncha green. But these eyes are not lost. Not like my grandfather's eyes in the last one year. Her eyes are in control. She is perfectly in control. 

Amma has aged so beautifully.

Sona is half Amma's age. 45 years perhaps. A Bangladeshi, she wears her thin hair in a tight bun at the back.  Her leftover curls twirl prettily along her forehead and her mouth is forever red. Pan Red. She has a strong working body always draped in a practical sari. She, I think, loves me. She cries every time I leave for Bombay. And cries every time I return jaundiced or malariad. I often find her scolding my mum for sending me away to another city.

Amma and Sona don't quarrel. Perhaps they don't understand each other's language. My mum and Sona periodically fight even though they don't understand each other's language. I love-hate their love-hate relationship. Sona often threatens to walk out. My mum throws attitude. Sona leaves. My mother waits for  her for two days before asking the neighbours. On the third day Sona is willingly found in the kitchen scolding my mother for something new.

   

This time when I came back, my mum told me about Sona's decision to leave our house. She's moving away to Tuglaqabad cause she can't afford a house in Chirag Dilli any more and prefers to be closer to her daughter. A round bus trip from Tuglaqabad to my house costs about 30 rupees by the swanky green government buses. They are threatening to become costlier. This means if Sona were to continue working with us, she'd have to spend 1500 rupees per month plus a twenty minute walk to the bus stop plus unreliable amount of waiting in this frozen winter. 

Sona hugged me before leaving and cried. I looked to Amma and noticed how much older she was from my mental image of her. I will return to Bombay in three days not very happy I think.

This winter has been very harsh on us.