Ammachi

The last time I saw my grandmother, I was in a hurry to catch a train. Meeting her was a quick detour, unplanned, swiftly executed. I was returning from a wedding. I had come home just for that. I was with her two weeks before. Mum and I had come from different corners of the country to reunite with her, the final Kaakurumbil women’s reunion, as destiny, would have it.

The visit before was easy-going. I had the time in the world to sit and chat with her, which I did. But I also remember whiling away time looking at my phone, mindlessly scrolling through social media. Blissfully unaware that precious time was passing by.

One of the last core memories I have with ammachi was her secretly coming to my room, as I went through my phone. She handed me a hefty bundle of crumpled notes. They would add up to a couple thousand. She has always done this, secretly giving money to her first granddaughter. This time it was different. She was giving me more money than usual. She knew my uncle had already given me my share of monetary blessings for this visit. Maybe that’s why the crisp notes from the past became crumpled this time. A bunch of tens and twenties, fifties and hundreds, adding up, like the exponential love she had for me. Mum would tell me later, that money was the last of her savings. She gave her all before she left me.

Things had started to feel different since then. I was visiting her after four years. All the time that I have visited her before, we had a running gag – my favourite! Whenever I would ask her, “How old are you ammachi?” She would say, “Oh, I am just barely twenty-four.” Each year, I would laugh out loud and try to reason out with her how mathematically (and biologically) impossible that was. Maybe that’s why I love math. Maybe that’s why twenty-four is my favourite number.

When I asked her this time, I saw the glitter in her eyes dim a little. She sighed and said,” Oh, I have gotten old my little one, I am already sixty-nine”. My heart dropped to the ground. What was she saying? What happened to her? All I could do was stare endlessly at her, as she rubbed her aching legs with oil.

That time when I left, there was the hope of seeing her again. I knew I was coming back for the wedding. I would get to see her again. I just didn’t know that it would be the last time. When I came home that time, I behaved the way I normally would. Some time with her, most time on my phone. I left for the wedding thinking that I wouldn’t see her till I come again. Then happened the detour. The wedding got over early. My train wasn’t until later. I could afford to take a stop. And so, I did, I went over to see ammachi again. Probably my best life decision yet.

The final reunion was short-lived. I could only stop for tea and a little chat. Didn’t want to miss my train. I had my friends waiting at the other end of that journey. And so, I bid ammachi goodbye. For me, it was ‘until we meet again’. But for her, she knew this was the end of the road.

Our final hug felt different. I could see her desperately trying not to let go. There was fear and longing in her eyes. The fragility of her hold made me shiver in surprise. Why was I suddenly scared? Deep down I think, I knew too.

13^th June 2022, this was the day ammachi breathed her last. I was five hundred miles away from her, preparing for the first day of my finals. This was the first in-person exam I was to write in two years. I had woken up early that day. Ten minutes into the last-minute hurried reading through my scribbled notes, my sister calls me. It was 6.15 in the morning. It did not feel strange at all. I felt pleased. I would get to hear from her. I picked up the call. There was a low sob, “Ammachi Chali Gayi” (Grandmother passed away), she said. I couldn’t believe my ears. “What are you saying?”, I asked her again, and again, and again. My hysteria was a breath short of setting in. That’s when I heard my mum wail from a distance. Fifteen-year-old flashbacks swiftly rushed through my mind. The day my grandfather, Mum’s dad passed away. She was wailing the exact same way. At that moment, I knew, I had to be strong for her.

I asked my sister how Mum was. Her eyes have dried out of all the tears, she said. I cursed myself for being miles away. I should have been there for her. But here I was, all alone, in a foreign land, trying to build a future for myself, when my life was falling apart, right in front of my eyes.

I spoke to Dad. They were flying back home the next day. I had a week of exams yet to give. I would not get to see ammachi again. I was relieved. I didn’t want to ruin the perfect last memory I had of her. The hug had to be preserved. I could not let even her funeral, ruin it.

I cut the call. I had an exam to write in the next couple of hours. I did not have time to mourn. I repressed it. Said a little prayer, and thanked God for the wonderful life he gave Grandma and the beautiful blessing she was in my life.

Twenty-three years of memories started playing like a movie. The first time I ran to her when I was four. Our banters about her age. The way she would scold Mum to save me. She was my favourite. The one person who understood nothing about my life and yet supported me blindly. She was my biggest cheerleader. The one person who was proud of me for just existing. In her eyes, I thrived.

This was no time for mourning. The only way to truly honour her memory was to make sure I aced my finals. The finals week went in a blur. I was numb inside, as my fingers paced through the answer sheet, jotting down whatever my memory could jog at the moment. This was the longest I had gone without crying. For someone who sobs over advertisements, not shedding one tear was a miracle. And I was living that wretched dream.

Up until the middle of that week, I knew I would not be able to be at ammachi’s adakkam. But then, in some forsaken miracle, the funeral got postponed to the very next day of my last exam. I could make it. “Only if you want to”, dad chimed. He knew I was afraid of falling apart. Seeing her ice-cold body could do that to me. I had the rest of the week to think.

Every day I would pace around, arguing with myself, the pros and cons of my visit. The day before I had to go, I had made up my mind to skip the agony. That’s when a passing memory rushed by me. Seven years ago, ammachi visited our home in Delhi. She was meant to be with us for two weeks. But her visit was short-lived. Her brother-in-law had passed away. I recalled the anxiety in her pace. Desperate to make it back home, to see the departed soul, one last time. That’s when I knew, I had to go home. Even if it meant breaking down into a million pieces. I had to do this.

When I got back, for the first time in twenty years I felt my heart sink entering the threshold of Ammachi’s house. The home that saw my loudest laughs, wildest ways and momentous memories, she wouldn’t be there anymore, greeting me with the warmest smile and tightest hugs. I had lost her…forever.

The day of the funeral went away in a daze. I saw relatives and neighbours, from near and far, cry their hearts out. I was not the only one grieving. But I was the only one not crying. Somehow the loss had set my heart in stone. Even Dad cried. I hadn’t ever seen him this way, he held me and my sister in his arms and wailed his soul out. And my eyes…they were still dry.

Then the time came for us to say the final goodbye. Ammachi’s mortal body was to return to dust. That’s when I finally cried, my eyes, body, soul and existence out. Ammachi was gone. I would never hear her voice again, never see her face again, never hug her…again. The one person that believed in me unconditionally was no more. And all I could do was accept the reality.

As they lowered her body into the grave, we started singing ‘Koode Paarka’ (Abide with me), hoping to see her, in God’s glory, someday soon.

It’s been three months since ammachi left us. I have a degree and a job now. Each time I would make the smallest achievement in life, my first instinct would be to pick up the phone and call her. Hear her voice telling me that I was doing a good job and that she was proud of me. Every time I pick up the phone this way, the sudden jolt of reality brings me back to the present. Sometimes I still feel that she has not gone anywhere, that if I go back home again, I will see her on the front porch, waiting for us to run home, hug her, and ask her about her age.

She will always be twenty-four in my heart. And I will always try to make her proud, no matter where I am, in life.