TP VENU | Hyderabad 

“Make me a cup of tea,” said Baby. It was the only thing she ever asked. A hot cuppa is what she longed for each afternoon. The last eight months of 2020 were harrowing for the family, more so for Baby, my mum. She was Baby to her kids, grand-children, neighbours, neighbours neighbours and their friends and for just about anyone. She did not mind being called so. She in fact loved it.

Meeting Baby in the afternoon was a daily ritual and a hot cup of tea with a good measure of sugar, a must. Those cups of joy were interspersed with stories of days gone by, of building a home, squabbles with her brother, battling it out in court, cycle rides as a young girl, her tryst with the All India Radio, managing a hubby who loved his bottle more than anything else, office politics, of lecherous men, her friend Sheela and Blacky-the dog that gave her company in times of joy and sorrow. She would repeat the same stories, day after day.

Unable to move around as before, she found it increasingly difficult to get up from her bed and make it to the balcony. She stopped watering the ferns, watching television and reading the newspaper.

She wrapped herself in shawls and mufflers, the heater worked day and night, but she still felt cold. Tired, she spent most of her time in bed. It was the warmest place.

On December 31, 2020, I was at her bedside with a hot cup of her favourite tea. She enjoyed it as always. I was looking forward to the afternoon ritual the following day and I was at her bedside at the appointed hour on January 1, 2021 but she had other plans.

She slept like a baby never to wake up again. A cup of tea will never be the same again.