by Divya Ananth
I never had a Paati for a granny. I had a vivacious, spirited young lady who didn’t care much for the numbers that her years announced.
She was a mobile library, drunk on Tamil Literature, passionate about travel, always hungry for knowledge and reading of any kind. She had travelled the length and breadth of the country. Even rode on horseback to Badri and Kedar, in her mid 60s. She recorded her travelogues in her private diary – a treasure trove of insights, routes, observations and itineraries.
There was nothing she could not talk to you about. She would quote Kalki and Bharathiyar, reel off verses from the Kamba Ramayanam and narrate stories of Sherlock Holmes. Her account of the World War always held us in rapt attention – the ration supplies, the food, the underground bunkers, the daily sirens, and descriptions about how Hitler’s army could not survive the Siberian cold – we were transported to another world.
When I was in college, she used to come up with ‘oh so elegant’ designs for my salwars. I shared my Sidney Sheldons with her. Her favourite was “If tomorrow comes”. She was progressive without compromising the traditional. Always part of my Carnatic Music practice sessions, Paati and I discussed concerts, composers, Raagams and more.
Her eyes would take that distant look when she lovingly spoke of Mylapore, a suburb in Chennai, where she spent her school years. “Those days, the Kuvam River was very much navigable. I myself have been on ferries and seen goods being transported”, she would muse frequently.
She would fondly remember Thatha, the concerts at Krishna Gana Sabha and the English films at Sapphire Theatre on Mount Road.
Paati is very beautiful. In her wedding photos, she is nothing short of ravishing. It is a pity, she couldn’t walk the ramp.
She had a way with plants. She would talk to them, nurture them with a care that only they understand. When a plant shrivelled up, she would feel the pain, when the first buds came bursting, her elation was palpable.
She saw me through both my deliveries, held both her great grandsons proudly; gave all the wisdom she could to the new nursing mother; watched over as the baby slept near her.
Age has crept in these days. The fiery light in her eyes is a shade dimmer. The white in her hair, a shade whiter. The wrinkles only conspire to make her look graceful.
It has been four years since her brain cells have started deteriorating. When I see this lovely lady flounder with everyday activities, facing the curse of Dementia, I feel a wrench deep down.
I gaze into her eyes for a moment, and the memories come rushing.
Memory – the word has become an irony in her world now.
Divya Ananth is an advertising copywriter – a creative consultant. She simply loves to travel, and Carnatic music is her anchor in an otherwise crazy life. She’s also a busy mom of two adorable boys, and juggles cricket and tennis classes, organizes play dates and reads Geronimo Stilton with them. Writing, to her, is an intimately joyful experience.
