The Anchal Master of Chandanapally

I have the fondest memories of my late paternal granpa whom I called Appachen and my dad called Achachen. My granny tells me that he was hot-tempered and a strict disciplinarian, but ever since I could remember I knew him as a soft and gentle person who revelled in the company of his grandchildren. Every night he'd call us for a prayer session that included litanies and hymns. His favorite song was Ashvasame enikkere thingidunnuand when he reached the final stanza - which was about becoming one with God leaving the world and all its cares - he raised his voice even further. I guess he knew his end was near.
Granpa died in 1978 after battling an assortment of ailments including high BP and diabetes. He even had to give up his favorite habit - smoking beedis. At night we kids sat on the dining table to get a share of the wheat dosa he had for dinner.
Granpa's favorite perch was near the drawing room window from where he could survey all who went past. He'd call out to people he liked to chat to and they always came and kept him company for a while. He'd then call me to his side and ask the visitor: 'Do you know who she is? She's my grand daughter and she stood first in 1st standard.'
(Fortunately for him, he did not live to see me fall in rank in my later years at school.) He would plead with my father when he whacked and pinched me for not learning my school lessons, especially during exam time. "Please dont beat her", he'd say and dad would retort: "She's my kid, I"ll do as I please." But it always gave a leeway for my mom and granny to come to my rescue and Dad would leave in a huff. And I happily went to the dining table and spread my book open, keeping an ear open for the gossip emanating from the kitchen.
Granpa had retired as a postmaster in the Indian Postal Service. Not surprisingly, he was known as the Anchal Master in my village, as the postal service was known as the Anchal Service in olden days. Granma tells me that each post office had an Anchal runner (post man) who ran carrying his mailbag and shouted out to let people know he was on his way. Granpa had served in many post offices in Pathanamthitta district including Ranni and Vadasserikara (where my father was born) but retired from Kaipattoor PO, in the neighbouring village.

Granpa was 30 when he married my granny, who was a sweet 16-going-on-17 then. It was an occasion that gave my granny a chance to wear her first chatta and mundu, and travel to the church in a bullock cart. She followed him with their brood to all the places he was transferred to, while in government service.
Being the only salaried person among his siblings, Granpa did not get anything much by way of family inheritance and so, bought a beautiful rugged piece of land in which he planted dozens and dozens of fruit-bearing trees and rubber - one of the first cultivators of rubber in my village. Mangoes and jackfruits of assorted tastes, avocado, nutmeg, drumsticks, cashew, sapota and coconut palms vied for space with teak and other timber-yielding trees.
Sadly, much of granpa's early crops have made way for rubber trees, which doesnt let shorter plants and trees thrive in its vicinity.

Last month, when I was in my village, I took my children for a rendezvous with their great granpa in the church cemetery. For me, my granpa's grave remains as special and holy as the shrine of Parumala thirumeni is to some Syrian Christians.