He was Dada to everyone in the village. A calm man, wrinkled not with age, but with the constant working under the sun. Working so that he could put two square meals in front of his wife and son.
I never asked him his name and he called me just Mausi and my husband Kaka. So I suppose in my book he will always be just DADAJI
He was amiable, ever smiling and whenever any one had some odd job to be done , it was always Dada.
I called him dadaji, and he was always there. Right from the day when we laid the first foundation to the time the house came up. He hovered in the background most of the time and was ever ready with his words of wisdom.
People say he used to work in the Mills in Mumbai. When they shut down he migrated back to his village, got married and settled. He had farm land that he tilled and cultivated rice and whatever he could.
So right from painting my house to get the pump going. From watering my garden to growing the rice for me, from cleaning and airing my house to wrapping up my solar panel, from acquiring odds and ends from my neighbouring shepherds to helping me keep in touch with the same shepherds, he was always there.
He had dreams of giving his son a good education, building a small house next door, and having a nice retired life in his old age.
Then all of a sudden, the icy hands of death took over. He was adding colour to a new house and his heart gave way!!!!
Now when I go home , there is no dada to welcome me with a broad grin and no dada to wrap and lock the house when I leave. It was with a heavy heart that this time I closed my windows, locked the door and left!!
But wherever he is I do hope that DADAJI is keeping an eye on my house, as he did the last 3 years! May his soul rest in peace.
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