Churuli

“Time is relative,” remarked Churuli. She isn't a physicist. In fact, Churuli has never been to school. She hasn’t heard of Einstein. Come to think of it, not even about the Mahatma. Her theory of time came from the tree. She used to say that it spoke to her when they were alone. She lived near the Banyan tree for years, making it her home while protecting it with her subtle presence. Both the tree and the woman stood as the centre of our small community.

The banyan was old and like the earth upon which it thrived; it was home to many. From nestlings to Nilgiri Langurs, the tree sheltered all those who sought her. Just like Churuli.

Churuli was over eighty for sure, but no one really knew her exact age or her origins. She used to wear a saree, but her style of draping it was unusual; she wore it without a blouse. On most days I used to see her with a brown blanket, something she held dear. When the blanket tore, someone from the village would buy a new one for her. The thing is, she just had to mention something and our people would run to get it for her. She was the grandmother of the village. Everyone loved her that way. In fact, if she had agreed, our people were ready to take her home and look after her. But she never left that old hut of hers, the one beside the Banyan tree, which was her home. The hut was also home to a few stray dogs. She used to feed them with the little she earned as alms.

She used to tell us things that never made sense to us as kids. Nevertheless, she told them. Maybe she knew that one day we would remember those words, like how I do now.

“Once you find home, then time is just a thought. And once you find God, then even those thoughts die. I don’t really know how old I am, I just know that I am home, in the lap of my master, in a shelter that will never throw me out.”

The last time we spoke, she told me that her God was the tree itself. And I couldn’t help but wonder – how could a tree be someone's God? How could she believe in a thought that was so plain? But I wished that I could feel that way about something, at some point at least. I wished that I could trust an intangible force so deeply, so intensely.

Churuli was dear to the whole village, but she was particularly dear to us children. We listened to her stories, munching on things that she prepared for us. She would go into the forest and fetch all that she could find to feed us. Guavas, mangoes, mulberries, and when it was the season, the jackfruit. She would clean the jackfruit, remove the seeds, and keep it outside her hut in a plate. And as we ran back from school, her humble hut was our dearest stop. She took care of our hunger, both of our stomach and of our soul.

If we were lucky enough, Churuli would sing a folk song for us. The songs that praised the creator and songs that spoke of love were her dearest. And every time love came up, she used to smile wide.

 I always wondered who her lover had been. I was always curious to know about her past back then. But these days, after knowing a bit more about love, all I wonder is how one could learn to love like her. Her love gave her joy. It set her free. And I really don’t know if I can ever do that anymore.

“Chinnamma,” she called me one day as I was roaming near her hut. Saddened by the loss of my father, I was trying all that I could to make some sense of life.

“You should not let the world weigh you down. Nor your losses. Your father is at rest. You should know that. You needn't worry your heart about what death is. When you are ready, that knowledge will not sit heavy upon your chest."

Churuli took my face in her palms and continued.

“Now you must grow. And one day, like this tree, become home to souls. Become their dearest home. And for that, grow your roots stronger.”

Churuli then suddenly stopped. She looked up at the sky and hurried me.

“It is about to rain my child. Get back home. Come back when you feel like it."

I looked at her frail body. She was sitting still. She did not hurry me because she saw the rains coming, there was something else. I didn't know what it was, but she had a dull smile on her lips. And I obeyed her.

In fact, that day I obeyed her totally. I turned out to become home to a few people. I have become a writer now.

And every time I looked back, Churuli sits on that old cot in front of her hut, smiling at me as I walked back. A few seconds with her, that I still do not understand fully, steered me along a path that has been unforgettable.

I believe that there are these very few moments in our life when logic takes a backseat, but those moments leave us changed.

Be it love, be it devotion, be it madness, be it a rather unexpected journey or a rare finding; certain moments change the course of our life.

If we are lucky, that moment will define the way we look at life. It will change us into what we never thought possible. A moment like that will leave us hopeful and hopeless, simultaneously. And from that point, what we were doesn’t matter anymore. We look around. We see. We hear. And we listen, finally. We learn to listen without wanting to agree. Without wanting to reply. We simply listen.

For the first time that day, I could feel Churuli's voice ringing in my ears. I was listening, taking it in. I listened to her just the way we listen to the rain, to the murmurs of the tree. We don't search for answers there, we needn't actually. Life is never about the answers, maybe that was all that Churuli was trying to tell me. And she was true, it can never be about an answer. It is far too profound to be limited to an answer. She breathed this truth in her very being.

Churuli died a few days back. And I felt that I should note this down. Maybe as a memoir. Or as a reminder. I don’t know. The hut she lived in would soon be gone as well. Maybe the tree too. I don’t want her to fade away completely. Hence this note.

Sometimes I think that Churuli was the God who she used to talk about. In fact, it wasn’t the tree that was the home, it was her. She saved it. It was not the other way around. Now that I think about it, I am sure that the tree would have bowed down to her every day.