Sudha Bai: A Life Loudly & Well-Lived
“I was admitted to the hospital because of my toe’s inspection” Sudha Bai said, just the day before yesterday, while sitting at my parents’ house.
Sudha Bai—my father’s younger sister, my chinnattha—has always been a powerful presence in my life. Her son, Ramu (technically, Ram Bava), chuckled and corrected her, “Oh mother! It’s infection, not inspection.”
“Right. That. Inspection. They would have amputated my leg if it was from inside. But since it was outside, I escaped,” she replied, brushing it off like she always did—with that casual, matter-of-fact tone she reserved for everything intense in her life.
That was her way. That was her.
No drama, no fuss, just clarity. Even when it came to pain. Especially when it came to pain. That was true of most people on my dad’s side, but Sudha Bai embodied it.
Her signature expression was "maaari". It rolled off her tongue in countless ways - sharp, amused, exasperated, triumphant - depending entirely on the mood and context. It was her iconic catchphrase. Roughly translated, it meant something like “well, obviously” or “and that's what/ then what?”—but really, it was so much more. It was her shorthand for sass, certainty, and all things Sudha Bai.
She was married off at around ten-ish, to Narayana Mama, who she loved (sometimes less) so much, and they spent most of their life together in Metpally. So, to us, she was also Metpally Attha. She was loud, unfiltered, fierce, kind, giving, and impossibly hard-working. She raised three children while steering the chaos of big family life and even held a political leadership position, at some point, possible as the women’s collective head in her area.
If I had to choose a poster for agency and power, it would be her face. And you'll see why!
I remember our summer visits and festival trips to Metpally. Bathukamma was especially memorable. She knew hundreds of folk songs, sad that I only remember 'uyyalo uyyalo' now. These songs spoke of women, of work, of resistance. She would sing and dance with unmatched energy. and she taught me the lyrics and steps patiently, as I made notes of lyrics, asked her 100s of questions around its meanings, got lost in tunes. I would hum those songs for weeks afterwards, only to forget and learn again! She was also a terror to anyone who misbehaved - both in her presence or absence!
And she made the best sekinalu and chekkalu. Every year, we would wait eagerly for her parcel, knowing it meant crunchy snacks with evening chai.
She was also hilarious. I can’t recall every line, but the time with her was always filled with laughter. Nothing else mattered for our relationship - no family politics - interfered with our bond. She also loved gossip, but who doesn't?! At least she owned it! And she had opinions - plenty of them! and she wasn't afraid to let them be known!
One famous funny story in our family is from when I was about five. We were all in our Venkatapuram house. I kept declaring “it’s mine” or “it’s ours!” every time she touched something, like any other irritating child that age! At some point, fed up, she got up, put on her chappals, opened the gate, and stormed out. I ran upstairs and looked out at the road. She saw me and told my mum, “See, she does love me. She will ask me to come back, you see.” And then, apparently, I yelled, “Oye! Before you leave, give back my mother’s sari you’re wearing!”. Lol!
She must have come back and given me a loving smack. We continue to laugh about it and repeat the story EVERYTIME we are together!
No matter where she lived, she knew everyone in the area. Every evening she sat outside the gate, peeling garlic or cleaning rice, chatting with other women doing the same. They would talk, vent, laugh, gossip, and help each other. Everyday women’s solidarity in its rawest form. She also always found ways to earn - rolling tobacco leaves, doing other odd jobs that I cant recollect now - anything that helped. But, she let us know early on that, we should do whatever we can, especially if we want to! Unfortunately, I dont think she used the same philosophy for her daughters and their freedom, but probably it was easier to do so with us!
She was also loud - in voice and presence. She demanded to be heard, and always stood up for herself. And I hope that’s how she saw herself too.
At Ram Bava’s wedding, her entire colony opened their homes for relatives. We stayed next door and that generosity marked me deeply. It cemented in me the beauty of gift culture - that we are not just material people always, but part of communities built on care, reciprocity, and shared celebration.
She always gave me money to buy junk food when we visited. Chips, ice cream, whatever my Hyd-restricted tummy desired.
Years later, while working with UNICEF, I was asked to support Swachh Bharat Mission success stories documentation in her area. The PR team from Mumbai and Delhi had no network. I simply called my Attha and Mama. Suddenly, doors opened. People spoke. Stories poured out. While the PR team stayed in hotels, I stayed with them - eating, laughing, chilling. Community members sent me back to Hyderabad with grains and love - all because I was Sudha's mena bidda.
I had hoped she’d be at my wedding. I wanted her presence, her voice, her uyyalo songs as my soundtrack. But we had lost Mama a year before (i think), and she had just undergone major knee surgeries. Years of relentless work had finally taken their toll., seemed like. I met her in the hospital briefly. She was the same - nonchalant, brave, and a mix of smiles and tears.
So, when we chatted just two days ago, joking and planning for my visit in two months, I really wanted to hug her tight. Rest my head on her shoulder. Gossip. Laugh. Be a child again. But, also, this time, be the adult and be able to offer some comfort.
But today, I heard the news. She’s gone.
A massive heart attack took her away.
I’m not ready to talk about her in the past tense. Her voice, her laugh, her presence - etched into my head and heart. Her fire lives on in me. She taught me to stand up for myself. That legacy is forever.
I just want to go home. Now. Living abroad has never felt sadder.
Sudha Bai was always the loudest at funerals. She cried with abandon, beat her chest, sobbed for hours. That she is now the one we’re mourning - it’s unreal.
I can’t be there to wail. I can’t even be there to whisper goodbye.
But I know she’s surrounded by people who love her, who will speak of her life loudly, like she lived it. For hours, days, and years to come. As for me, I hope I was able to capture her aura a bit here.
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