Sunday, May 4, 2003		Life Ties

To survive at all costs
Taru Bahl

"MONA Aunty" was what everyone called her. If you lasted for more than half an hour in her company you would discover that her real name was Kasturi Devi. She had been a heroine in her heyday, which is the silent and later black-and-white era of Hindi cinema. Her husband had left her for another younger woman and her son-in-law had gifted her the flat—a price he had paid to ensure she never stepped into the life of her daughter. He was convinced that she was a "bad sort, an unhealthy influence and one which could only pollute his home and life."

If this severing from her kith-and-kin hurt her, she did not show it. Armed with steely grit and determination, she built a life based on a realistic assessment of her situation. ‘Filmy’ to the core, she was theatrical in her mannerisms, flamboyant in her lifestyle. Vain, she still dressed up in style and stepped out of the house only when she was fully made up. She was definitely over 70. Since she had been an asthmatic since long, her health and appearance had taken a beating. The residents were not too happy to have her in their midst because they perceived her flat to be a ‘shady’ place where there were strange goings-on. All kinds of people trooped in at odd hours in her flat, an alcoholic nephew lived with her and she had a forever-changing retinue of servants. If the door was ajar, one could always hear her screaming or giving a dressing down to her cook in a colourful language.

While some of the women in the building did exchange pleasantries with her, the men abhorred her very sight. Some of them even forbade their wives from having anything to do with her. We were on the same floor as her and, wittingly or unwittingly, the only family she lovingly interacted with. Perhaps, the bond was unique because she had the freedom to walk in any time, be it in her night dress or with her mug of coffee and asthma inhaler. She often sat on her kitchen stool and prepared mutton koftas and mutton, never forgetting to send a bowl to us. While there were others who doubted her veteran actress status, she proved them wrong by passing on to us a few of her black-and-white prints where she had actually played the role of a heroine and later a character artiste. The movies may have been imminently forgettable but they did prove her actress status. She took immense pride in showing off and regaling us with related anecdotes which were funny as well as tragic. Many of her contemporaries, who had failed to manage their finances and ended up in penury. Some became mistresses to directors and producers, wasted their youth and were abandoned in their old age.

Her house was like a club. Faded film stars, flop television starlets, mothers, sisters and brothers of film stars and wannabe actors trooped into her house post-lunch. An organised cards network was laid out where people played rummy with counters. A fixed portion was kept aside for handing over to Mona Aunty. While the ladies left in the evening, the subsequent sessions extended till late into the night where people drank as well. This is what the building residents objected to since running a commercial activity within residential premises was not allowed. Concern regarding the "polluting of young minds, tempting them with anti-social activities and making the complex vulnerable to drunken bouts and eve- teasing" was not entirely misplaced.

Mona Aunty’s nephew was also a nuisance. Guards invariably had to help him as he stumbled into the block and, at times, picked him up from the roadside or nullah where he lay unconscious in his drunkenness. Unfazed with all this, Aunty had ‘connections’ which allowed her to sail through every annual general body meeting of the residents’ association and continue with her clubbing. Cooking, management, housekeeping and gossip sessions were her lifeline and the money she received was more than enough to finance her day-to-day expenses.

Her nephew, a vegetable, had been with her for over 15 years after his wife deserted him and children chose to ignore him. A well-read man, he had allowed himself to degenerate. He finally died of cirrhosis of the liver.

Her home was a place her friends and acquaintances knew they could use as a refuge after they had a fight with their sons or husbands. Some of the older women found a purpose for their existence as they came to her card sessions and often stayed back, assured at least of a good hearty meal and a restful night of sleep. She counselled young women against being exploited in the big bad world of films. She offered them a shoulder to cry on when their boy friends dumped them or some producer went back on his commitment of offering them a ‘dream debut’. In some cases she even turned a match maker.

What was amazing about her was her street- smart survivor’s instinct. There were times she fell seriously ill and her one-bedroom flat turned into a mini nursing home. Then, the card club would grind to a halt and her petty savings be diverted towards medical expenses. Before she ran out of money, she would summon her son-in-law and insist he pay the bills. There were times you felt that this time round she will not be able to escape the clutches of death and she would prove you wrong by bouncing back and having a full club house within hours.

The hushed whispers when she crossed a fellow resident or the occasional dharnas outside her flat, demanding her ouster did not bother her. She could still laugh at the end of the day as she cracked a bawdy joke or poked fun at the knocks life had hammered onto her. She never tom- tommed about her occasional good deed and nor did she curse life. She just took each day at a time, gave it all she had and slept fitfully, bone tired.

Last heard, she was still going strong in the same flat, well over 80 years of age, running the same club and cooking the same delicacies. Only she now had no immediate friendly neighbours for the flat next to hers was permanently vacant. Despite all odds, she had survived.