A Charming Account of a Vibrant and Loving Person Who Touched so Many Lives

chillibreeze writer — Uma Gopal

Just a few kilometers from the West Bengal – Bihar border lies Chanch, a colony in Bihar. I was closely associated with Chanch for twenty odd years starting from the late 1940’s, as I happened to live there during this period. It was a sleepy little place comprised of houses scattered haphazardly and had lush jungles surrounding it. Chanch’s reputed Firebrick factory was the hub -- the only reason why people settled there. For all practical purposes Chanch lacked even basic facilities such as shops for groceries and vegetables.

However, this little known place virtually tucked away in the midst of nowhere could boast of one of the most happening things for miles around. It was the presence of Mrs. Shanta Rao – a homemaker and a lady par excellence.

Mrs. Rao, the wife of the then company’s General Manager, welcomed with open arms my mother Sushila, who came to Chanch as a bride, and looked on her as a dear younger sister. Sushila’s four children were like her own, to shower her affection on; hence my close association with this wonderful person.

Though Shanta had no children of her own she loved and understood them. Her house was filled with toys and games and it was her Ayah’s job to keep us engaged in play so that the visit was enjoyable to both parents and the kids. When Mrs Rao’s brother’s children -- Vimala, a medical intern, and her brother Sudhir, a nineteen year old student, visited her, Mrs Rao thought it fit to invite my thirteen year old sister and myself, a mere ten year old, for tea. Our hostess’ carefully planned fun filled evening made it very enjoyable for all of us and we all got on famously despite our age differences.

Mrs Shanta Rao hailed from Mysore and was self taught in all her home making skills. Like many ladies of her time she had not completed school. Eveready to learn, she painstakingly copied out recipes and household tips from books and magazines. Her eagerness to be fluent in the English language made her zealously pursue the improvement of her reading, writing and spoken skills. My father would fondly recall his bachelor days when Mrs. Rao had invited him on certain evenings to taste the latest dish that she had tried out. She valued my father’s comments on her culinary experiments.

“What is worth doing is worth doing well “was this admirable lady’s motto. Provided by the company with a rough infrastructure of a huge sprawling colonial style bungalow, heavy rosewood furniture and acres of undulating land meant to be cultivated as gardens, Mrs. Rao made the most of things.

Everything in the house gleamed. The large retinue of servants at her disposal was put to work to polish the furniture at least once a week till, I am sure, their arms must have ached with exertion. It was a treat to watch the shining brass fireguard reflect the merrily crackling fire in the fireplace and the red oxide flooring, polished to a hilt, mirror the object d’arts, furniture and rugs scattered carefully on the floor with a careless elegance. Mrs. Rao’s garden was always alive with varied hues of seasonal flowers and bird calls .A glorious sight comes to my mind’s eye --- of one particular winter when there grew a whole field of Asters in purple, mauve and white.

Mrs. Rao’s reputation as a wonderful hostess was famous for miles around. People invited to her lunches and dinners would wait literally with bated breath for the snowy white tablecloth covering the food to be removed. All were in awe and expectation of the gastronomical delights served at her table. This gracious hostess did not limit her charm and hospitality to visiting dignitaries and important people of that area. Be it a person of reckoning or a clerk and his family the welcome was always the same. The visitors were treated to a sumptuous spread of sweets and savouries served as they should be --- warmed, flavoured and aesthetically befitting a king.

Mrs. Rao was a strict disciplinarian and there were many quaint anecdotes that people loved to tell about her. In those pre independence years, the only gadget vaguely resembling a fridge was the ice box which used kerosene for its fuel. The ice blocks that were stored in these boxes had to be carried by men from the ice depot which was at least two miles away. When her servant arrived all hot and tired, carrying the ice block on his head, the sharp-eyed lady would weigh the ice. Finding it weighing less than what it should, Mrs. Rao would chide her servant Lalu for the shortfall, not taking into account the ice melting during the long walk.

Karim the bearer in his spotless white uniform was an impressive figure. Whenever there was mail or a note for the lady of the house, Karim would present it on a small silver salver. It was also part of his duty to usher and announce the visitors. We always wondered how he kept his uniform spotless! The secret of its whiteness was not an Ariel or a Tide wash! The uniform was just not allowed to get dirty. The lady of the house was particular that Karim change into mufti after duty hours, hang up his uniform, and then only step out of the pantry.

The years passed and it was a sad day when we had to bid goodbye to our beloved aunt .She was leaving for Calcutta where her husband was to take up a new posting. Packing up was an elaborate affair. What with all the things collected over the years Shanta found that she could not take all her belongings. So she decided to give away these things to her many friends, keeping in mind their tastes. Her brown cocker spaniel, Cooky, she gave to a friend who was an animal lover. Nearly six months later the Raos unexpectedly came to live in a place some ten miles from Chanch and Cooky was returned to the rightful owner!

My sister and I are beholden to Mrs. Rao for hours of reading pleasure. Going through the books, magazines and recipe books gifted to us, we came to know more and more about our aunt as a person – her exquisite tastes, the desire to excel, the hard work behind her success. Over the years the carefully preserved books became yellow with age and even disintegrated. But the memory of their wonderful owner lingers on, finding a niche in childhood memories and the rank of unforgettable people.

Many years ago I happened to visit Mysore. Guided by the address I had still retained I landed up at the Rao’s residence. There it was --- the garden blazing with flowers and the front door wide open, signifying a warm welcome. But the lady who spoke to us was not Mrs. Rao. Our friend had passed away a few years back. Now we can only recall the wonderful times spent in the company of a great lady by the fragrant pot-pourri that had been compounded over a long period, by a person who had left her mark in many people’s lives. Thinking of Mrs. Rao is going back to an era of spaciousness and living in style amongst nature; far removed from today’s cramped existence.

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A Charming Account of a Vibrant and Loving Person Who Touched so Many Lives

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