I call her Badibai—the elder mother. It is a heavy title, perhaps, for a woman who is my sister, but from the moment I opened my eyes to the world, her affection has been so encompassing that the name simply stuck, fitting her as naturally as a well-worn cotton sari.
The Voice in the Garden
Yesterday morning, the MGIMS campus was very quiet. It was Badi Behenji’s death anniversary. We gathered around her samadhi in the garden—students and staff sat on the grass, and the elders took the chairs. The Sevagram winter air was sharp and clear. The Friday prayers had just ended. Usually, we leave after the readings from … Read the essay