Celebrating Women IV: My Achamma

For most of us, age is a reminder of our mortality. 

But for my Achamma? 

AGE WAS JUST A NUMBER

My paternal grandmother, who I fondly called Achamma, was someone who was the life and soul of every party.  

Born in Baroda during the British Raj, she shifted to Kerala in her early childhood and went on to study for a while in a convent school. After that, she got married at an abnormally young age and shifted to Coimbatore with my grandfather. Then, they moved back to Kerala and kept visiting my aunt and paternal cousins, who kept moving. A while later, after my Achacha passed away, she moved in with my dad, back to Baroda. 

Yet, even as she moved from place to place, there was one undeniable thing: she was really charismatic. 

When she was a schoolgirl, she'd dress up, style herself differently from the rest.With her long hair swishing, she would saunter all the way to school, along the paddy fields. 

Everyone would look at her in awe. How could a girl in 1950s Kerala be so confident in her own skin? 

As she grew up, she wouldn't just stand by the corner and coyly bite the tip of her sari. She'd be the star of the room and would start chatting with everyone merrily.

Even later, when she shuttled between the the diverse cultures of Tamil Nadu, Kerala and Gujarat, my grandmother was always a stellar conversationalist. For someone who was only fluent in Malayalam  and Tamil with a smattering of English and Hindi, she had an intuitive ability to somehow connect with people, regardless of language barriers. 

I remember one instance like this quite clearly. 

My best friend from college had come to Baroda with us when we were seventeen. I thought the both of us would do our own thing - my parents would take us out to see places and we'd just chillax, blow off steam. 

But imagine my surprise when I saw my Malayali Achamma interacting with my Punjabi best friend. Not just once. 

Over the course of the three day trip, they had bonded really well. And even after the trip, they kept asking about each other and my grandmother would keep saying, "Give my love to your friend." whenever we met! 

ADICHU POLIKYAM  

Apart from being a highly skilled communicator, Achamma loved  a good dose of entertainment. 

Since her youth, she'd watch movies religiously (Mohanlal was her favourite, before he messed up in Big Boss and got subjected to her wrath). She'd read, everything from my childhood novels to my dad's books on IR. She'd watch TV serials, across languages, thrice every day. 

But more than all of this, she loved parties. 

Weddings, family get-togethers, birthdays, New Years - she loved dressing up, meeting people and having fun. 

She never entertained notions like, "I am too old for this." or "Who will care about me?" 

For her, it was always adichu polikyam. 

Her zest for life was so strong that even during times of duress, she knew how to stay optimistic. 

Like last year, she had a minor ear infection, which had swollen her face up. 

When we saw it, my mom, Ammamma (my grandmother, with whom I live with) and I were really upset and worried. 

But Achamma? 

She painted her nails and went for her 15-minute operation. After that, when my mom and I arrived in Baroda, she wasn't in the least dismayed about the pain her stitches caused her. 

Instead, she was a bit more invested in Mollywood at that time. 

My aunt was telling my mother about a famous Malayali actress, who was their neighbour once. My mom, being the ultra cinema gossip freak she always is, listened intently. 

Achamma, on the other hand, broke through and told my aunt, all impatiently, "That's not how that happened." 

And she'd promptly tell the correct version of the story, because she had a very sharp memory, even for someone in her late 70s. 

My dad, who was seated on the opposite bed, smirked at me and said, "This is a person who just had an operation." 

And I couldn't help but laugh. 

Achamma's ability to focus on the brighter side of life was something that I rarely saw in people. No matter what she went through, she would always dress up, show up and never give up on her joie de vivre. 

GONE, JUST LIKE THAT

Five nights ago, my mom woke me up to tell me that Achamma had passed away. It was a sudden cardiac arrest. 

For the first fifteen minutes, as I saw my mother make phone calls after phone calls, pacing about the room and my grandparents entering inside, I was numb. 

I could hardly register anything around. Everything was just stagnant. 

Then, when I heard my dad's voice, completely rushed and unlike his normal calm tone, the numbness broke. 

I really couldn't believe it. 

My Achamma, who'd called me a week ago to wish me Happy Holi, was gone. Just like that. 

As I broke down crying, I sent out WhatsApp messages to my friends, pleading them to call me because I just couldn't process it. 

My friends called. So did my family. So did my colleagues at work. 

They all called and kept checking in on me. 

But that Thursday, I found it so hard to focus. I was supposed to be working from home. I was supposed to be the big strong adult, not a blubbering mess. 

Yet, I found myself oscillating between grief and disbelief. 

Talking to people helped, a lot. It helped me process my grief somehow better. I'm a lot better right now than I was, that disembodied Thursday. 

*** 

I know, wherever she is, my Achamma is having a blast. And if she's reading this, I just want to tell her one thing:

Achamma, ellam sheri aavum. 

My Achamma, Achacha and I

Stay safe, dear reader, 

Love, 

Archie <3