..will be severed and the golden bowl broken, the pitcher by the well shattered and the wheel by the fountain crushed.*
That each one of us will keep our appointment with the Maker is a given, and my grandfather honoured his tryst a couple of weeks ago.
Appachen was my last surviving grandparent. Since his passing I've had this growing certainty that a chapter has been firmly closed despite my efforts to resist it. A sense that one of the last links to my childhood has been severed...... A permanent change in the way I view my maternal home and surroundings. In all honesty, it's not just the loss of a person that I'm grieving, but the loss of a way of life, of stability as I knew it.
It's at times like these that you realise how much a person can dominate a home without even raising his voice or moving around much. At 83, 'sprightly' was hardly the word that I'd have used to describe Appachen, but his mind was clear, his thinking sharp, and his opinions as firm as they'd always been. I can't recall ever having entered Amma's home in Kerala without a grandparent around, so current circumstances will take some getting used to.
It's hard to walk past his room without the customary peek to see if he's awake or sleeping. I found myself pulling an extra chair into the living room the other day, despite a vacant seat...... the empty one is Appachen's armchair, y'see. I can still hear his voice when the family sings hymns for the evening prayer..... I know where he would've paused, in every line of every song that we've sung together. Hesitating a moment before starting the Lord's prayer, waiting for him to lead, as he always did. Keeping an ear cocked for the tap-pause-tap rhythm of the cane he used in his last year.
I had only known this extraordinary man as my Appachen first. The 'Matthews' of his acquaintances and peers introduced himself later. A breakaway from his agricultural roots, he had plunged into the world of business and shipping in the Middle East at a time when 'Persia' was still an exotic mystery to most Malayalees, leave alone Indians. :) Perhaps I should also mention that he was only 23 at the time.
The career took off brilliantly, and he was still seeking new frontiers at a time when most men begin to think of retirement and their twilight years. I still don't think I can fully comprehend the impact this one man has had on the livelihoods and careers of many hundreds of people; his legacy is immense. Appachen was one of the very few men I knew who openly credited a supportive and capable wife for his successes. When Ammachy died close to a decade ago, the flame dimmed and sputtered considerably. I could see that her passing had wounded him deeply, but it did register somewhere in my 16-year-old mind that a woman who could claim that kind of devotion was a rare and lucky one indeed.
You might be tempted to categorize this post as the tribute of a favourite grandchild, but I do not think that would be correct. Appachen had enough old-school chauvinism in him to make it subtly but definitely known that his grandsons gave him a little more joy than his granddaughters. :) We girls can't really complain that we lacked anything, even though I would have liked for him to be a little more demonstrative. His pride in our achievements was unbounded though..... education and a career were must-haves for boys and girls alike.
Looking back, I think the major source of my pride-tinged resentment was the fact that I never got the 'grandchild' treatment as much as his other grandkids did. Even when I was as young as ten or twelve, we did have some very mature conversations on life, peers, and family. Perhaps I should be glad that he saw it fit to treat me as an equal sometimes. But another little voice in my head insists that equals are all around, but only he could've been a grandfather to me.
Make no mistake, there was no lack of love or respect on either side. We did have our share of fun and games, as well as dorky stories that my Ammachy considered highly unsuitable for young ladies of genteel breeding :) The chorichu-malle game was my prerogative with Appachen, and many a family car ride was swept along in gales of laughter and hooting. For those of you who're wondering what I'm talking about, take any two words (a name for instance) and interchange the first syllables. The resulting phrase can range from ho-hum to hysteria-inducing stuff. Eg: Muthoot Bankers would become Bathoot Moonkers.... get it?
I told you it was crazy :D
Appachen's laughter at such times is crystal clear in my memory..... a very gravelly and deep, slightly raspy "Ha ha haaaa" followed by a silent chuckle.....and a smile that lingered long after. Strangely enough, that was the sound that came to mind when I heard the damp gravel roll across the lid of his coffin, after we'd laid him in the grave. The way he'd laughed when we teased him and Ammachy for getting married on a 14th February, all those years ago before Valentine's Day was even heard of in India.
I had mentioned a sense of stability earlier, a feeling of being moored firmly, which I now lack. When he was alive, I viewed the protection of Appachen's love for his family as being similar to what I felt for my home:
No matter which corner of the world I'm in, it is there.
I know it is strong. I believe nothing can shake it.
Once inside, I am safe.
Needless to say, I now keep trying to pull the frayed ends of that loop closer together in any way I can. There are brief moments of respite. The smile that is forced to my lips when I see the photo of me and my brothers furtively eyeing Appachen's birthday cake, while he solemnly smiles for the camera. Running my hand along the armrests of his favourite chair, where the polish has worn off from years of use. The inexplicable comfort of seeing his battered Bible and spectacles on the bedside table. The cluttered desk which makes me feel that he's just around the corner.
Which he is. Someday I'll lift that curtain and join him there.
Until then Appacha, you'll be sorely missed.
R.I.P.
*The reference is to Ecclesiastes 12:6 in the Bible, which is widely used to illustrate death in the context of Christianity. Simply put, death is viewed as a cutting of the cord that binds us to earth, allowing us to go back to our home with the Father.
That each one of us will keep our appointment with the Maker is a given, and my grandfather honoured his tryst a couple of weeks ago.
Appachen was my last surviving grandparent. Since his passing I've had this growing certainty that a chapter has been firmly closed despite my efforts to resist it. A sense that one of the last links to my childhood has been severed...... A permanent change in the way I view my maternal home and surroundings. In all honesty, it's not just the loss of a person that I'm grieving, but the loss of a way of life, of stability as I knew it.
It's at times like these that you realise how much a person can dominate a home without even raising his voice or moving around much. At 83, 'sprightly' was hardly the word that I'd have used to describe Appachen, but his mind was clear, his thinking sharp, and his opinions as firm as they'd always been. I can't recall ever having entered Amma's home in Kerala without a grandparent around, so current circumstances will take some getting used to.
It's hard to walk past his room without the customary peek to see if he's awake or sleeping. I found myself pulling an extra chair into the living room the other day, despite a vacant seat...... the empty one is Appachen's armchair, y'see. I can still hear his voice when the family sings hymns for the evening prayer..... I know where he would've paused, in every line of every song that we've sung together. Hesitating a moment before starting the Lord's prayer, waiting for him to lead, as he always did. Keeping an ear cocked for the tap-pause-tap rhythm of the cane he used in his last year.
I had only known this extraordinary man as my Appachen first. The 'Matthews' of his acquaintances and peers introduced himself later. A breakaway from his agricultural roots, he had plunged into the world of business and shipping in the Middle East at a time when 'Persia' was still an exotic mystery to most Malayalees, leave alone Indians. :) Perhaps I should also mention that he was only 23 at the time.
The career took off brilliantly, and he was still seeking new frontiers at a time when most men begin to think of retirement and their twilight years. I still don't think I can fully comprehend the impact this one man has had on the livelihoods and careers of many hundreds of people; his legacy is immense. Appachen was one of the very few men I knew who openly credited a supportive and capable wife for his successes. When Ammachy died close to a decade ago, the flame dimmed and sputtered considerably. I could see that her passing had wounded him deeply, but it did register somewhere in my 16-year-old mind that a woman who could claim that kind of devotion was a rare and lucky one indeed.
You might be tempted to categorize this post as the tribute of a favourite grandchild, but I do not think that would be correct. Appachen had enough old-school chauvinism in him to make it subtly but definitely known that his grandsons gave him a little more joy than his granddaughters. :) We girls can't really complain that we lacked anything, even though I would have liked for him to be a little more demonstrative. His pride in our achievements was unbounded though..... education and a career were must-haves for boys and girls alike.
Looking back, I think the major source of my pride-tinged resentment was the fact that I never got the 'grandchild' treatment as much as his other grandkids did. Even when I was as young as ten or twelve, we did have some very mature conversations on life, peers, and family. Perhaps I should be glad that he saw it fit to treat me as an equal sometimes. But another little voice in my head insists that equals are all around, but only he could've been a grandfather to me.
Make no mistake, there was no lack of love or respect on either side. We did have our share of fun and games, as well as dorky stories that my Ammachy considered highly unsuitable for young ladies of genteel breeding :) The chorichu-malle game was my prerogative with Appachen, and many a family car ride was swept along in gales of laughter and hooting. For those of you who're wondering what I'm talking about, take any two words (a name for instance) and interchange the first syllables. The resulting phrase can range from ho-hum to hysteria-inducing stuff. Eg: Muthoot Bankers would become Bathoot Moonkers.... get it?
I told you it was crazy :D
Appachen's laughter at such times is crystal clear in my memory..... a very gravelly and deep, slightly raspy "Ha ha haaaa" followed by a silent chuckle.....and a smile that lingered long after. Strangely enough, that was the sound that came to mind when I heard the damp gravel roll across the lid of his coffin, after we'd laid him in the grave. The way he'd laughed when we teased him and Ammachy for getting married on a 14th February, all those years ago before Valentine's Day was even heard of in India.
I had mentioned a sense of stability earlier, a feeling of being moored firmly, which I now lack. When he was alive, I viewed the protection of Appachen's love for his family as being similar to what I felt for my home:
No matter which corner of the world I'm in, it is there.
I know it is strong. I believe nothing can shake it.
Once inside, I am safe.
Needless to say, I now keep trying to pull the frayed ends of that loop closer together in any way I can. There are brief moments of respite. The smile that is forced to my lips when I see the photo of me and my brothers furtively eyeing Appachen's birthday cake, while he solemnly smiles for the camera. Running my hand along the armrests of his favourite chair, where the polish has worn off from years of use. The inexplicable comfort of seeing his battered Bible and spectacles on the bedside table. The cluttered desk which makes me feel that he's just around the corner.
Which he is. Someday I'll lift that curtain and join him there.
Until then Appacha, you'll be sorely missed.
R.I.P.
*The reference is to Ecclesiastes 12:6 in the Bible, which is widely used to illustrate death in the context of Christianity. Simply put, death is viewed as a cutting of the cord that binds us to earth, allowing us to go back to our home with the Father.
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