We often read obituaries of famous people. But when “people like them” die, they often pass into oblivion unsung and un-mourned. That is why I dedicate this column to Bundo, masseuse ordinaire, who good-naturedly relieved the aches and pains of countless south Delhi ladies over the last few decades. Yet, when she died last month of complications due to a kidney ailment, she was alone but for her errant son and indigent husband.
Our association began about 20 years ago, when my mother engaged her for a massage. Her daughter was ripe for marriage, Bundo said, so she needed more business to bankroll her wedding. Soon she became a regular fixture in our home. As we got to know her better, we realised that nothing in Bundo’s life was atypical. Belonging to a family of poor migrants from Uttar Pradesh, she was married at a young age to a man who – from the sounds of it – didn’t particularly like to work. Although illiterate, Bundo had learnt basic techniques of massage from a midwife early on in her life. So, while she was never short of work as a masseuse, serving as many as six clients a day — her husband was happy to just live off her earnings.
History has a funny way of repeating itself. When her son grew to adulthood, he too couldn’t find a job he liked (or maybe what he couldn’t find, was a job that liked him). Bundo struck gold with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren though — she never had to worry about housework as the daughter-in-law took care of it beautifully, and her two grandchildren were her pride and joy.
Maybe that was why Bundo never complained about being her family’s sole regular breadwinner. With nary a bad word for anyone in her family, she unfailingly landed up on time for her appointments, though she had to change two buses to get to our neighbourhood. As many of our neighbours became her “regulars”, her slight figure became a common sight, come hail or shine, injury or ill health. The only time of the year when she took some time off was Eid. When any of us remembered to give her an Eid present, she’d be overjoyed. And, when we forgot, which I’m ashamed to say happened often, she’d not mind at all.
She was a cheerful soul who gently laughed off her own worries and massaged away the pain of others. Reed thin and rather short, she was surprisingly strong and ever-willing to expand her client base. In the last year of her life, Bundo often tried to contact me. She regularly visited a client not far from my house, and was hoping that I would send a little more business her way. We asked her if it was physically possible for her to take on more clients in her already busy day. “I just can’t sit at home doing nothing!” she had said laughingly, “I like to keep myself busy.”
And busy she remained, until the very end. She continued to work until she died after a mercifully short sickness. Even as she lay in the ICU in her final moments, unknowing clients kept calling her phone, hoping that she would come one more time to knead away their winter woes.
Obituaries of famous personalities usually dwell on their achievements. In the final reckoning, there isn’t much more that I can say about a simple, illiterate woman who smelled continually of a mix of mustard and olive oil. But her healing touch soothed innumerable post-pregnancy aches, menopausal pains and womanly woes, even as it sustained her family. I guess that counts for something, doesn’t it?
