Serial fiction inspired from a life queen size
A Letter to Grandma
My dearest Grandma,
I am extremely sorry to call you
Grandma. You never let your grand children or great grand children to address
you as ‘Valyammachi’ (Grandma, in Malayalam), because you feared that such an
address will be an assertion that you have become an old lady. Fearing your
reprimand, all your children, grand children, great grand children, and
servants called you Ammachi (mother). And you wanted all your friends, neighbours
and relatives to call you by name (Mariamma) unless they were several years
younger to you. You used to declare that most of them were elder to you.
Today, when my
daughter insisted on buying a Pears transparent soap during our Sunday shopping
at Spar, I suddenly remembered you, because that was your favourite brand for
several decades. You had the habit of stocking at least a dozen of them in your
wooden almirah.
I remember your
almirah which was customized as per your directions by the carpenter with three
locks, fixed equidistant from top to bottom. You always ensured that none of us
peeks through while you open it, and in case anyone tried to, you would
position your tall hefty body to hide the view. But from what we, youngsters
could get a glimpse at different points of time, we almost prepared an
inventory of goodies inside it along with their location and shared with your
inquisitive children who never dared to come near your almirah.
They were prohibited
from attempting to come near to the almirah from their childhood as you were
sure that they would leak the information about the contents to your husband
(our grandpa). Most of these Almost everything inside the almirah were
‘undisclosed assets’. And you used to declare that these contents were unaccountable
before your husband. You proudly maintained the position that the entire source
is from your benevolent brothers and nothing for your husband to take credit
of.
Not only the contents
of the almirah, but also its keys were kept safe in your ‘madikuthu’ (the
tucking of the cloth at the waist, while wearing it around the waist). We
wonder where you hid them whenever you were moved to surgery tables. You might
have reposed more trust in those lovely nurses than your own children. While
you were on the surgery table, your children must have prayed and worried not
only about your health but also about the whereabouts of the bunch of keys. But
you always repossessed your keys from undisclosed recipients immediately after
each surgery, in the post-operative ward itself.
You liked medicines,
hospital visits and long chats with your favourite physician, Dr Ravichandran.
You even faced the surgery table with a smile. When one had to wait patiently
for a word to come out of his mouth and lend his ears completely and place it
in proximity to his mouth, and watch closely his lip movements to decipher what
he says, how could you spend such a long time with him who was known for his
irritating silence and expression-free face? Your unstinted faith in the doctor
and in Allopathic medicines made you feel better, from rheumatic arthritis to
hair loss.
I used to see you
popping several tablets of different colours into your mouth since your early
forties. That is my earliest memory which I can recall of me as a nine year old
boy, when I used to spend my days in your house, skipping my school due to
frequent head aches.
The reason for my
frequent headaches was more of diagnostic in nature than of physiological. One
needs a lot of personal experience to detect the existence and intensity of
this most favoured disease among children as well as attention seeking adults.
Not knowing my prize
winning talent in Mono Acting practice, my mother used to be very sympathetic towards my
plight. When evening ends up in unfinished home work, I start my head ache
project first, asking permission to hit my bed earlier than usual. (There was a
fixed bed time fixed unilaterally by my mother for me and my sister). While
‘mono acting practise would go on under my red blanket, my mother used to apply
‘Vicks Vapo Rub’ on my forehead. (That was her ‘ottamooli’, something like
quick fix, for almost all the pains under the sun) Morning, when my mother and
sister send their calls to me, my practiced dialogue flows back.
“Severe headache,
amma..Can’t open my eyes”.
Finally, to my
sister’s utter disappointment, my mother would declare, “Okay, let him stay in
Valyammachi’s house”
Winning the game, I
would get up and quickly pack my small bag with my favourite books. My mother
would bring me and my bag to your house which was a kilometre away. Explaining
my severe headache condition, mother would hand me over to you. You would check
if I have fever by placing your right palm on my forehead. I would act a tired
look to convince both of you the gravity of my head ache. Both, you and mother
were scared of that severe head ache as only both of you know how my Chachan
(Dad) suffered before leaving us for ever!
While my mother
quickly had a bite of tapioca and chilly chutney, you placed a big spoonful
of gooseberry pickle which you had prepared, for her to share it with her
friends at school.
As my mother departs
to school, I used to come back to my true self. I enjoyed being alone in the
house, most of the time I spent on day dreaming. Imaginations galore: becoming
a writer, a priest, a saint, a bus conductor, bus owner, a singer, and many
more. But your long conversations used to interrupt my dreams.
After a very late,
extensive tooth brushing, with a unique mixture of powdered salt and ummikkari
(roasted husk of rice), you used to have your breakfast around 10 30 am. Then
you would sit and read the daily news paper “Malayala Manorama”, rather loudly,
not only the regional, but also the national and international news. You would
plan the lunch only around noon as you wanted to serve grandpa, a hot steamy
meal.
As I lie down on the
cot, bubbling with colourful imaginations and fascinated by the funny figures on
the wall caused by withered paint and funny movements of ants, you used to
bring me a glass of kanji vellam. (red rice soup).
“When will grandpa come for lunch?” My
innocent question would trigger an unending emotional narration from you.
Will Grandma allow me to continue publishing the rest of this letter?
Click here for Part-2 'Hot rice in an emotional bowl'
