It's an year since Ammachi passed away. Remembering her with fondness as we learn to live without her comforting presence. Death may have made her look diminutive but her personality had always been towering and resilient.
Me and Kochumon in particular owe her our childhood and a good part of our growing up years. The delicious lunch she packed for us to school everyday amidst a frenzy of household chores and tagging her like a shadow on her church and house visits will remain sweet memories. Strong, temperamental yet loving and childlike, she is the quintessential 20th century Malayali Christian woman whose struggles were not just for their immediate family but for a nation in the making.
The last line might seem vague and pompous. But in a fledgling nation, the citizens and their new rulers were all learning to improve lives together.
I remember Ammachi saying how they had to rope in a few more families to opt for electricity when we wanted a power line in our street. My grandparents had bought our present estate from a Hindu family some years after 1947. Though my grandpa was from the village and his father and siblings had a lot of land, he didnt get anything much (except a piece of paddyfield land) since he was the only employed one among his siblings. He worked as Anchal master (the post master of yore, when the postman was called an anchal ottakkaran/runner. Not sure if the postman ran sounding a bell to alert anyone who might have a letter in store.) So grandpa had a transferable job until towards the end of his tenure when he was posted nearer my village. Until then, my grandparents had lived in places like Ranni, Vadasserikara and other parts of present-day Pathanamthitta district.
The uneducated and poorer neighbours grumbled that they were forced to pay for a power line that they didnt need. In those days, electricity was a luxury. By the 1980s, taps with running water became commonplace while telephones and TV came in the 1990s (or a little earlier for the wealthier folks).
Today our village could be as good as a small town (not comparing with much of north India where villages are pathetically backward and squalid). Pristine, quiet yet modern in the matter of facilities. We have a renovated PHC, supermarket, banks and plenty of autos at the junction where an Ashoka tree has provided shade from time immemorial - as if it were holding an umbrella to all those going about their jobs or waiting for the buses that came by the minute. Most houses have cars too, and young girls either ride a cycle or a scooter unmindful of sexist comments. As a 70s kid, I never had that inclination to learn cycling.
This post is as much about my granny as it is about my idyllic village. She died at the age of 98 in the old family house where a home nurse kept her company. My parents live in the same premises and checked on her and her needs. However, for dad who never expected her to just fall and die one evening after a nap, it was a big shock - the only time I have seen him cry was at her funeral. She had no health complaints save for low blood pressure and arthritis. She managed her personal care and food with a little help from the caregiver who cooked for her. For someone who was active until her youngest son passed away in 2010, she suddenly lost all energy and became depressed. She withdrew from the kitchen and spent much of her time in her bed. She would wait for us grandchildren to come home on vacations especially the two of us she had reared.
I wish I had called her more often as she had a mobile phone towards the end. I last called her in March 2016 and she died in May. Mom said she kept asking when I would come home in the days preceding her death. My last trip had been that December when she had a nasty maid who carried tales about her to mom.
I now try to learn from my mistakes - all those people I hadnt called more often before they disappeared for ever from my life - and call dear ones somewhat regularly. Texting comes more naturally to me than audio calls :)
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