From a Granddaughter

by Anupama Krishnakumar

Dear Thangam Paati,

Though I wish I could have, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you this in person because you wouldn’t have heard most of what I would have spoken and would not have been able to comprehend the meaning of it all. Your hearing got poorer and your ability to grasp deteriorated slowly but steadily and before the reality has even sunk in, you are no longer amidst us.

When Mother called me on the morning you passed away, I heard her sob and utter those horrifying words. My body shook for a few minutes before I collapsed into the sofa and began to calm myself down. Now that it’s few days past, I have mulled over what I want to say and have decided to write it down and hope that you will somehow know of this.

Despite all that I have grasped of death from the little spirituality that I have read, your passing away has been a tough experience to deal with; especially because I spent a large share of my growing-up years with you. Everytime that I have come back home – from college during vacations, from work during weekends and for occasional breaks after I got married, you were there along with Thatha. Through all those years, you saw me move from one milestone to another, smiled and hugged and blessed me with so much love and adoration, that it brings to tears to my eyes now that I think of it. During those same years, I saw you move from one phase to another phase of ageing and transform from an active person to a quiet, subdued presence at home, staring vacantly into spaces ahead and occasionally springing one of those questions that you kept repeating. This subdued presence and your deep-throated voice will be missed terribly, Paati. It’s going to take us lot of time to get used to your painful absence.

Today, I think of those times when you would sit in the puja room and perform pujas with such ardent devotion, uttering shlokas with a sincere heart, invoking blessings of the Almighty on the entire family. I think of you, your face that had aged so gracefully, your gleaming diamond nosering that looked like it was made just for you, the big round red kumkum on your forehead that made you look so graceful, your curly grey hair that you would comb religiously every evening after applying coconut oil. I think of your frail, stooping form, of the beautiful cotton and silk sarees that you would wear, the love you had for sarees, the wide variety of handbags that you stored inside the wardrobe ranging from clutches to tote bags. I think of the fragrant Ponds Sandalwood powder that you would dab gently on yourself.

I think of those better times, when you would sit and watch Tamil soaps on TV, getting confused about the dozens of characters across mega-serials, questioning Thatha incessantly about the plots and the people while Thatha would shed tears for those characters. I think of those moments when you would feel genuinely sorry for people on screen and in general for those who go through tough times uttering the word ‘Paavam’. You were such a good soul, Paati. You wouldn’t for once think of harming someone or putting someone down.

I think of those conversations we would have about your childhood, especially your mother and siblings and the way you would beam with pride when you spoke of Tarapuram, your place. I think of those special words and phrases that you would use frequently, words that I have heard only you use. Not common parlance. It makes me smile. I think of the way in which you would sit and help Mother in the kitchen, cutting vegetables and how you would serve us food. I think of the times when you would fill in for Mother and plait Sister’s and my hair when we would be getting late for school.

Paati, today, I think of all the Carnatic music lessons that you imparted to me through years. You were my Guru who taught me such beautiful songs – ones that I sing to my children today and put them to sleep. I think of your affinity for Thiagaraja Kritis and Bharathiyar songs and the times we would sing together. I can’t help but smile when I think of how frustrated you would grow when they played only film songs and not Carnatic music on TV and radio, so much so that you would ask, “Idhula nalla paatu varaadha?” (Won’t they relay good songs in this?). I can never forget your soulful rendition of ‘Akilandeswari Rakshamam’ in Dwijavanthi.

When I think of your music, I think of your handwriting – the fat letters that would curl impressively and distinctly and all the songs that you had written in your own hand in different kinds of notebooks for us to look at and sing. The last time I met you, in a surprising move which saw you utter a few comprehensible words, you were telling someone of how you have lost your ‘saareeram’ (the voice quality) with a grave look in your eyes. I felt helpless and terribly sad. I felt bitter thinking of what life and age can do to a person. Your voice and your memory were gone.

And two weeks since that meeting, you decided that you have had enough of this worldly suffering and that it was high time you had your freedom. You lived with Thatha for 71 long years, something unheard of and I must tell you it’s such a heartrending sight to watch Thatha alone without you. I am unable to bear it. Mother and Father, who have been with you both for nearly three decades are distressed beyond words. But Father told me this a few hours after you passed away – “it’s unfair (and selfish) of us to have expected her to live on with all the pain. It only shows our possessiveness. I think she really went through enough suffering that she needed this freedom. “

I agree, Paati. I know this was probably your biggest worry over the last few years that formed the basis of all your persistent questioning – the fear of the eventual, happening to you when nobody was around. I do not know what went through your mind when you lived through those last painful moments of your life but I really hope you knew you weren’t alone. All those who were most dear to you were around you as you departed from this tough world into realms of freedom. Your destiny, it appears, was designed thus. Now that your biggest worry isn’t a worry anymore, it’s time for you to rest, Paati. Rest. Rest in peace.

Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her son, singing lullabies for her little daughter, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything! Tomatoes send her into a delightful tizzy, be it in soup or rasam or ketchup or atop a pizza!

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