Remembering Bejawadamma

In quiet memories across generations often lie the stories of extraordinary women who built families and shaped communities. One such woman was Bejawadamma – my Nayanamma (father’s mother) – whose life spanned most of the 20th century India in Coastal Andhra.

Pidaparthipalem, her birthplace, nestled in the Kollipara mandal of Guntur district, was a quiet village sustained by the Krishna River’s bounty. Just across the river, Vallurupalem, also in Krishna district, mirrored a similar agrarian rhythm. These two villages, perched on opposite banks, were connected not by bridges or highways, but by footsteps through sandbars and shallow currents – crossings that carried more than people; they carried fate.

At the age of nine, Bejawadamma made one such crossing. She walked through sand and stream to attend a wedding in Vallurupalem, only to find herself married at the same ceremony. As was customary, she returned to her natal home, stepping into her husband’s household years later as a woman ready to take on the weight of family life. Eventually, the couple moved to Vijayawada (Bejawada), where her story truly began to unfold.

Bejawadamma’s moniker was not born of titles or accolades but of affection. As nieces and nephews from surrounding towns came to stay, they called her ‘Bejawadamma’, the lady of Bejawada. The name stuck, much like her influence. A matriarch in every sense, she governed her family with a firm hand and an open heart. Her real name being Annapoorna (the goddess of nourishment), her kitchen was her command centre, where lentils, jaggery, and rice were transformed into boorelu, poornalu, and palyamrotti large enough to feed entire gatherings.

But her real legacy was beyond culinary, it was strategic. Bejawadamma decided every marriage in the family. She kept a pulse on the personal trajectories of her children and grandchildren, influencing them with logic, affection, and occasionally, candour laced with generational biases. Her remarks could be sharp, her views tinted by her era, yet she rarely let dogma override familial welfare.

She had twelve children, three of whom passed away early. The remaining nine, and their eighty descendants, now span cities – Vijayawada, Hyderabad, Bengaluru, Singapore, and cities across the United States. A daughter of an engineer, it is no surprise that she played a pivotal role in the descendants mostly becoming engineers.

A cousin recalls his time as a young engineering graduate living in a hostel in Vijayawada. On weekends, he often spent time with Bejawadamma and was struck by her friendliness towards both familiar and unfamiliar faces. One day, he observed her speaking with their milkman, casually inquiring about milk yields. The next day, she brought up the topic of milk adulteration with milk powder. Through patient questioning over multiple encounters, she deduced that the milk she had been receiving was adulterated – a discovery made not through confrontation but through quiet, methodical inquiry. When asked why she had spread her questions over days, she replied, “If you press people for too much at once, they are not likely to tell you the truth.” This simple wisdom left a lasting impression on him – and on many of us who witnessed her way of engaging with the world.

I remember her visits to Bengaluru after my grandfather’s retirement – her generosity as having a “big hand,” her insistence on being addressed in the singular, a rarity for elders, and her preference for honest conversation over ritual prayer. She didn’t need overt piety to inspire reverence. Her spirituality, if it could be called that, was action-based: honest talk, shared meals, and consistent fairness.

Her passing was emblematic – no grand spectacle, no hospital corridors. Just a quiet end in the kitchen, where she ruled, doing what she loved. This ordinariness and dignified routine transformed her story from memory to meaning.

Bejawadamma’s story mirrors the stories of many women – our grandmothers and great-grandmothers – whose strength lay in their resilience expressed in managing finances, settling disputes, raising children, and feeding dozens without complaint. Here’s to them – quiet architects of lineage, logic, and love.