Amma’s Dassera art

Amma was elated to hear how her work was appreciated everywhere.

Days before Dassera, I’d returned from a long trip to the US and Canada. After a successful edition of the Toronto International Film Festival, for whom I’m Senior Programme Advisor, South Asia, I travelled first to Cambridge in Massachusetts, then to New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Everywhere, I had meetings, and gave priority to visiting museums and art galleries, especially showcasing the art, culture and history of Black, indigenous and marginalised people and minorities, and erased histories. Whatever present I may bring Amma, Indu Shedde, 97, chocolates, soft slippers or a shawl, I know she will save it up for later, from old habit. Nothing gives her as much joy as the regular delights I bring her from Vijay Stores, Santa Cruz—yellow poha chivda, methi khakra, and brown Dharwad pedha (as Amma grew up in Dharwar, Karnataka). I know that spending the day with her makes her much happier than anything money can buy. And I brought her laminated cards of her “vegetable art,” that she used to do in the 1960s, to earn a few pennies from home, as she raised two young girls, my sister Sarayu and I—table decorations made entirely of fresh fruit and vegetables—of which only a few remained, after I had gifted these to people in all these cities. Amma was elated to hear how her work was appreciated everywhere.

I’d brought Amma “magic crayons” from the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art (SFMOMA)—crayons in stippled colours. She immediately started using them for a drawing, ‘Different Shapes In My Room,’ in which she drew the outlines of variously shaped containers in different colours, all overlapping and creating a lovely pattern—all the while sucking her lips in, to concentrate better. She used the Vijay Stores’ Dharwad pedha box for a square, then a mug for a circle, a Lacto Calamine bottle, the round lid of a little steel dabba in which her caretaker angel, P, soaks methi seeds overnight for her to have in the morning, and finally, an oval shape. We had an epidemic of giggles when she confessed that she got the oval shape from her denture case. So imaginative is our darling Amma.

I had taken “torans” (decorations over the door) with marigolds, mango leaves and rice stalks, for Amma and her neighbour. And rangoli powder to make rangolis (floor decorations), but I couldn’t find those readymade rangoli pattern cut-outs. Although P doesn’t know English, she has the smarts, and tells YouTube to find her “tulsi rangoli,” and promptly the how-to videos pop up. We make a simple, sweet “tulsi Vrindavan”. My fingers are unaccustomed to making clean, even lines, whereas when my Aai—my granny—used to make rangolis in Dharwar every dawn, her swift strokes went suin-suin-suin, creating beautiful patterns before the front door. The rangolis were made of rice powder, not chemicals, “so the ants also get to eat.” On either side of the door, were gunny sacks: one with kurmura or puffed rice, the other with rice grains, and there was a box of coins: no beggar could ever be turned away: you learnt to gauge their hunger or resourcefulness, and accordingly give them what might be most helpful: kurmura, rice or coins.

I filled in yellow powder at the top and bottom fields of our rangoli, using a channi, tea strainer, for an even spread, YouTube-style. And green and red for a geometric pattern, and for the tulsi leaves. “You can’t make tulsi leaves red and green,” P told me, and I gently assured her, we can make art in any colour we like, and make up the rules as we go along. I loved her look as she digested this radical idea. We put four diyas in each corner of the rangoli. Amma did a little aarti and beautifully sang Devi bhajo Durga Bhavani in Raag Durga. A little army of black ants turned up, wanting to join the celebrations. I tossed a little sugar in the garden, and they all rushed there. How do ants know when there’s a celebration? The way hijras know when there’s a newborn in the family. They just know. As twilight fell over the hills leading to Matheran, that you can see from Amma’s verandah, nothing could be more blissful.

Meenakshi Shedde is India and South Asia Delegate to the Berlin International Film Festival, National Award-winning critic, curator to festivals worldwide and journalist. 
Reach her at meenakshi.shedde@mid-day.com

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