Remembering Noor Jahan – our old ayah whose life epitomized hard work, dedication and loyalty

 

Her name was Noor Jahan. We called her ‘ayah’ and she worked in our home. This was in Calcutta during the heady Sixties and Seventies (1960s-70s) and the early Eighties. Ayah must have been there at home ever since I started going to school or possibly a little later. My memories of schooldays at Don Bosco in Park Circus are peppered with her presence during lunch hour and beyond. She would lay out my lunch at the same space on the long table each day, make sure I (‘babu’ she would call me) had everything that was sent by mother, and then wait till I had finished my playing rounds ahead of the post-lunch assembly, to wipe my face and head with a fresh towel. This became the daily regimen till I passed out of school. I do not remember her taking a day’s leave during all those years, except once when she had blisters on her foot, my sister, Snehalata, recalls, which, come to think of it, makes it absolutely amazing, isn’t it? (Ayah's husband would take lunch for sister when she was teaching at Ashok Hall. "A very decent man, he would raise his hand in salute when he saw me," she recalls. "He died in 1975 but ayah continued working as hard.")

Ayah would knock the front door just once. She was happy to wait till one of us came to open the door. In the mornings, she would usually arrive by 6. Cleaning the utensils, mopping the floor, soaking clothes and putting them out to dry, she knew what had to be done and there was little time for banter. It was work that mattered to her. Evenings, she would arrive after 6 and get to knead the atta (milled wheat flour) to make chapattis and finish other chores, if any. There were no electric mixers and grinders then. It was all about grinding grains, spices and lentils using traditional stone implements – the ammikkal, a flat grinding stone with a rolling stone; the aatukkal, a rotary stone grinder used for readying batter for idlis and dosas. All passed down through generations, which need physical effort, patience and skill.  

Noor Jahan passed away in 2000. She died peacefully in her sleep on the day of Eid after making lunch for her family. After parents and I left Calcutta in 1983, ayah was forced into early retirement. Sister, who ayah lovingly called ‘baby’, feels she is “lakhon mein ek” (one in a lakh). I still remember the old ayah,” she says, “I am glad I visited her place and gave her grandson some money – small amends.” She remembers her saying: “Kal raat sab bhooka soya (last night we ate nothing and slept).” This was when ayah was old and infirm and had stopped working. During her working days, she never ever complained. She was happy with the 40-50 odd rupees she earned, a substantial sum then. In the 1960s, it would have amounted to about Rs 4,500 (today’s value) and in the 1970s about Rs 2,500 and more, enough to cover a family’s household expenses for several days.

You will not easily find a sincere and dedicated domestic help like Noor Jahan today. Like sister says, people like our old ayah are “worth their weight in gold”. Her discipline, hard work, dedication and loyalty marked her out as an extraordinary woman. She took life as it came, stoically. She sought nothing. A cup of tea made her happy. Ayah was financially poor but rich in human values. True to her name, she was a light that brightened the world.

* Picture shows Noor Jahan with her daughter and grandchildren.