Ceramic memories

She hated to be called Ma'am or Aunty or Nirmalaji. She insisted everyone call her 'Ni'. Last night I heard Ni passed away. As soon as I read it a host of memories came flooding in. Her laughter, her impatience, her incessant smoking, her story telling and her making magic on the wheel. The first time I met her, she made sure to tell me how many people were waiting in line to be her student. Over the next few months, I heard that sentence every now and then, more so whenever she was irritated.

We shared a love hate relationship. I think the hate was part of the love. I didn't know what to expect when I went to her place. She would either open the door irritated and make me get to work right away or she would make me sit at the dining table and have me eat something or the other. Even if I had just had lunch, I had to eat whatever I was given. "Sharwari, I've kept aside some gajar halwa for you" or "I've made dosas for you". I never did mind because she was as good at cooking as at pottery. She would walk around the house studying her thousands of glaze rings, always a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. The cigarette would somtimes be forgotten and a new one would be lit. Every pot near her would turn into an ashtray.

She was one of India's most exquisite potters. More than anything I got my passion for pottery by spending hours with her. Ni was responsible was introducing me to the world of Mantra Handmade Pottery and Auroville. She was the first Indian woman studio potter. She would often tell me stories while teaching me about glazes. Stories from her days in Shanti Niketan and Germany and everywhere else. I wish I had recorded them; a regret I will always have.

The last time I was home, I bumped into her at a movie theater. She casually mentioned that she had been diagnosed with cancer and one of her kidneys had to be removed. "So have you stopped smoking then?" I asked. "Of course not!" was the vehement answer. She was the youngest 79 year old I knew.