SAMRUDHI KERKAR
Recently, we went to meet Saraswati aai, a person we always remember whenever folk songs, stories, and traditional knowledge come to mind.These elders are living repositories of knowledge. Their wisdom may not be written down, but every word that flows from their lips carries the weight of experience. However, this time, the purpose of our visit was not to collect a folk song or learn something new from her. We simply wanted to meet her and check on her well-being after she had suffered a terrible accident by slipping from her terrace.
The news of her accident left us deeply worried, and we felt we had to see her. She lives in Pariye village, just a few kilometres from ours. In the surrounding area, she is fondly known as ‘Kaki.’ When we asked a passer-by for Kaki’s house, he pointed us to it immediately, without even asking for her name. That’s how well-known she is. Her childlike, beaming face flashed before my eyes. In fact, she is very old and frail in body. But only in body. Her spirit remains young and unbreakable.
We reached her home at twilight, just as daylight was slowly fading. Even from a distance, she recognised us and welcomed us with her cheerful spirit. As we sat with her, she conversed with us as though nothing had happened.
Recently, we had organised a programme where we had hoped to invite her. But after hearing about her accident, we didn’t even think of asking. However when we simply mentioned the programme, her face lit up with excitement.
“You should have taken me,” she said with longing.
“Would you really have come, even in this condition?” my mother asked in utter surprise.
“Why not? A well can be confined, but not a flowing river. I don’t want to miss such events.” How
effortlessly she uttered such profound words, leaving us speechless. “Aai, where did you learn all this?”
I asked curiously. “When I was a child, we would
wander through the hills collecting firewood. I would hear the women singing these songs, and it
slowly settled into my mind. My mother, too, sang them throughout the day. Naturally, they became a part of me.”
As she spoke, her eyes wandered into the distance, as though they had travelled back to those forgotten days, rekindling old memories. I asked her to sing
a few specific songs. She began singing but sometimes she would forget parts of them midway. “I’ll mark
the wall with charcoal,” she said, “so that I remember them until you come again.” At first, I was puzzled
by what she meant. Then she explained that whenever she wanted to remember something important,
she would simply draw a mark on the wall.
“Can you write?” I asked.
“How can I, my dear? I never had the chance to go to school.”
“Then how will you mark it? With just charcoal?”
“Yes,” she smiled.
“I’ll simply draw one line, and it will remind me.”
“But what if we ask you to remember another song?”
“That’s simple. I’ll draw another line with chuno (lime paste). And if there is one more, I’ll mark it with haldi. This is how I’ll keep your notes in my mind until you come next time.”
We could not help admiring her ingenuity and her ever-curious spirit, even at this age.
Yet beneath her words, we could sense a quiet yearning for education. It became evident through something she shared with us.
“One day, I went to the bank,” she said softly. “Someone there told me, ‘Aai, you seem so sharp. Why do you use your thumb impression?’”
“But how could I tell them…” she paused.
“That I am anpadh (illiterate).”
Her words saddened us. “Who says you are
anpadh?” we replied. “In fact, you are far more knowledgeable than many of us. You possess a wealth of wisdom, even without ever going to school.”
She looked at us thoughtfully and asked, “Guruvina kon vidya shikta? (Can one gain knowledge without a guru?)”
Her question was profound, and it left me pondering. Our scriptures speak of the greatness of a guru. It is often said that knowledge cannot be attained without a guru.
But are gurus found only inside classrooms? I don’t think so.
Throughout my life, I have found many such gurus, in my parents, in nature, in people or strangers I have met, and in the experiences that have shaped me. Each of them has taught me something that no textbook ever could.
The goddess of knowledge does not always reside in books. Sometimes, she lives in people. She flows through their words, shines through their music/songs, and quietly shapes the lives of those willing to listen.
