Among the Not So Great

Mridubhashini (Mridu-di)

Be to her virtues very kind —
Be to her faults a little blind.

Once upon a time there was a “Prasad House”. Walk along the North footpath of the Ashram on what we, by long usage, know as the “Old Balcony Road”. On the opposite side you will see a construction marked as “Prasad House”. It is a new building that has for our convenience and some remnant sentiments, usurped that name. The building is crammed with piles of papers and dog-eared files, and some computers and their masters — all trying to keep track of where all the money flies — i.e. “accounts”. In an age gone by, in this place stood an old charming little house — The Prasad House. It was indeed house to real ‘Prasads’ (in the truest sense) and the Prasad-maker — Mridubhashini (or simply Mridu-di) along with her old cranking-up-type gramophone and discs, numerous stoves (13 if I remember right), delightfully tasty khichuri, rasagollas etc. and lastly walls festooned with Sri Aurobindo’s writings to Mridu-di, all framed. What a change — or what a fall!!

Mridu-di, born in Bengal in 1901, was widowed when quite young — a nasty experience at any age and time, much worse in those days. But she struggled through much and arrived here in 1930 and found a haven at the feet of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo.

Mridu-di, like the two previous ‘not-so-greats’, was a big person, but only in two dimensions i.e. width and depth (girth). She sadly lacked the height. She was maybe 1m 40cm tall and almost a metre across! Always dressed in a white saree, the “anchal” (the loose end of the saree) covering her head, as with many Bengali and Oriya ladies (the custom seems to be losing its foot-hold, rather head-hold. Maybe it will make a come-back as a new fashion), she waddled along from the Ashram to her house giving everyone she met a genuine happy smile from amid two big cheeks. The eyes joined in for good measure. Understandably she wheezed a bit. Her voice usually stood on the higher octaves — very effective for most occasions. The mind was of the simplest nature, but could be adamantine once it chose to be. Still this was only the mind, the ripples on the surface. What lay in the depths? Maybe we can venture a guess when we have seen a little more of her.

I was introduced to her within a few days of my arrival here. My brother Narayan, a veteran of a year here, saw to it. For, knowing her put you in line for some rewards — that Prasad. And, what a Prasad! It came — as we used to say — from “Up” — meaning from the Mother or Sri Aurobindo. Mridu-di was a great cook, one of the greatest, for she cooked for the Lord for 16 years. She would make choice dishes for Him and He had no choice but to have them, at least taste them. Once it happened that He did not partake of some dish, and she came to know of it. Someone had thoughtlessly informed her that Sri Aurobindo had not tasted one of her dishes. She was griefstricken and expressed it in no uncertain terms. The ‘informer’ was told “knowing Mridu, you should have kept mum about the dish”. The Lord had to personally console her, as you would a small child. Sometimes she would even tell Sri Aurobindo that she would commit suicide. He would say, “No, no, Mridu. Who will give me luchi then?” Sometimes, she would bow down to Him, and demand He place His right foot, or left foot, on her bowed head.

Many children, including my brother and I, would work ourselves into her good books, and get invited to her house. She was all smiles and prattled on and on in her high pitched voice and took us to her kitchen. Therein were ranged rows of stoves, vessels and ladles. They did not interest us. What we went for was kept in small cups — the Prasad. It was some khichuri, or a sweet that Sri Aurobindo had tasted. She gave a bit to each of us. We ran home happy and more blessed than we ever realised. But it was not always that she gave Prasad. She could easily be teased. Some like Amarendra did just that, for the fun of it. Then — no Prasad. One could not even approach her house. He, Amarendra, would accost her in the street at an odd hour (maybe 10 or 11 a.m.) and plead, “Mridu-di, please, some Prasad”. She would say, “Na, na, ekhun na” (no, no, not now). He would insist and follow close on her heels. She would scream at him— yet he would follow her. In desperation she would raise the pitch of her scream and call “Nolini-babu, Nolini-babu!” Amarendra and whoever was his accomplice would run — only to repeat if possible the whole scene or leave it for another day. Why did she shout for Nolini-da? For some unfathomable reason she was unquestioningly obedient to him and looked up to him. The following drama proves the above statement but leaves us further bewildered.

The drama unfolds in the days when the Mother came every day to the Playground. At 7.15 p.m. the Mother came out of Her room and stood in front of the map of India for the March Past. The March Past, then, was well attended. All the groups (from the youngest to the oldest) took part — every day! After the March Past all the other groups except the elders — group H — dispersed. Group H continued their 1/2 hour of gym-marching. Then followed the Concentration followed by groundnut distribution. On this particular day, just about 7.15 p.m., all the groups stood ready for the March Past. The Mother was ready to come out from Her room. In came Mridu-di, puffing and panting. She was sorely disturbed, full of indignation and frustration. She came and plumped down on the door-step of the Mother’s room. The door was effectively barricaded, the Mother could not come out. We all stood ready outside and the Mother stood inside and Mridu-di sat in between, immovable. Half an hour passed. Several people, Pranab-da, Puraniji etc. tried to plead, cajole, convince Mridu-di to move. Nothing doing. Finally the Mother came out of the other smaller door (side room) and the March Past started off. Mridu-di had not budged. Then — someone hit on the idea of calling in Nolini-da. Nolini-da came through the Guest House, looked at Mridu-di, said in a normal tone and volume, “Mridu, chalo,” turned round and started back towards the Guest House, without even a backward glance!! Wonder of wonders, Mridu-di got up and followed Nolini-da out — just like that — not a squeal of protest, regret, nothing. Quite an inexplicable denouement. What had happened to her and how did it un-happen? Maybe someone can give the answers. Such incidents were rare. Barring them, Mridu-di was the usual jolly fat person, butt end of some of our pranks and remarks. She didn’t always take them lying down. She often took a swing at us. One of her favourite targets was Runu Ganguly. She would call him, “Hey, Burmese” (such were the features he bore). He got pricked and would shout back, “Kumdo” (pumpkin). (To call someone Mridu-di was to condemn him/her to ‘Fatdom’.) But, if anyone went too far, she could always fall back on her shrill call of “Nolini-babu” and scare away Amarendras and the like.

Around 1932 Mridu-di shifted to Prasad House. Earlier she had lived in a house near where Laljibhai lives now. It is from then or a little later that the new house was called Prasad House. A new phase in her life was in the offing. Some time around this period Mridu-di took it into her head that no morsel of food would pass into her mouth until she had the Darshan of the Mother. And, so it happened, an event of great import to all of us. The Mother consented to appear on the “Old” Balcony — so Mridu-di could see Her from her window. Hundreds of others were the beneficiaries. It would almost seem the Gods await some excuse to bless us only if we would keep still and maybe lower our heads and raise our eyes. Maybe Mridu-di was the excuse. The Mother used to appear on the Balcony at 6 or 6.15 a.m. (As time passed the timing varied. The Mother could not make it sometimes even by 10 a.m.) Most Ashramites, and many other devotees, assembled on the street below the Balcony for the Darshan. When the Mother appeared a hush would settle and all eyes turned upwards to let the ‘Sight’ and the lack of sound sink in. But come The Darshan Days (21st Feb, 24th April, 15th Aug & 24th Nov) and Mridu-di would give us a special “Audio-treat(ment)”. Her gramophone would be ready, cranked up, and as soon as the Mother appeared, ‘Vande Mataram’ (the song) would crash in on everyone’s ears. This early morning musical dose did not go down well with most. I don’t know if anyone suggested to her to spare our ears from this onslaught. If they had tried, their failure would have been a foregone conclusion. Mridu-di’s convictions were not so easily shaken. Even when the Balcony Darshan was discontinued, Mridu-di would wait upstairs for the Mother to put the first morsel of food into her mouth, before starting her day.

There was once a move to extend Harpagon to include Prasad House. The process was well on the way in spite of Mridu-di’s shrill protests. She could, even would, have been bulldozed. But she at last pulled out her trump-card. She showed a note written by the Lord himself stating “Prasad House is Mridu’s.” All were forced to backtrack — stymied, well and good. The house had a reprieve. Later, it met a drastic fate, demolished, turned into rubble, a victim of utilitarianism. Up came the present usurper. Happily for Mridu-di she demised before it.

September — 1962 — Mridu-di was quite herself, active, talking and smiling. But in mid-September, it was observed by some that she no more did an ordinary pranam at the Samadhi. She would almost lie down, press as much of her body as possible on the Samadhi. Someone even remarked that something was happening to her, within her. On 20th evening she chatted with Lallubhai (her good old neighbour) on the footpath, then went to bed as usual. On 21st morning her doors did not open. She did not wake up. She had left us peacefully, quietly, without “protest”. That night of 20th, around 12 Sri Aurobindo had come to the Mother and said “I am taking Mridu.” Thus on a cloud of glory was she taken to her heavenly abode.

Can we now venture the “guess” as to who was Mridu-di? what was she? I still wouldn’t. I would rather raise my arms in surrender and my hat in a salute. Rather than question and seek answers about Mridubhashini and her peers, let the wonder of them sink into our minds, and let us bask awhile in the mellow afterglow of their brief sojourn here and their passing.