An Ode To My Grandfather, A Fighter Who Never Gave Up

Today, dear reader, I’m going to write about a very brave man.

A man who didn’t have most of the odds in his favour and yet, made them in his favour. A man who, despite all that he went through, had a heart of gold (even though he pretended otherwise).

And a man who I love the most (and I will definitely love the most for as long as I’m alive).

Today, dear reader, I’m going to write about my Ammacha.

My maternal grandfather who raised me along with my maternal grandmother, my Ammamma.

The Gen-Z from the Silent Generation

If you’re someone who believes in first impressions, you’d, for sure, think Ammacha was majestic. And he truly was.

He was very tall (for his generation), fit and always walked with a purpose. He was always put together, hair well-oiled and was always dressed in shirts and pants that he ironed to perfection. Nothing else would do for him.

Even if he were in a crowded room and (on a rare occasion) silently minding his own business, you’d always have your eyes on him – because he had an aura that no one has matched, can match, and can ever match.

But you know what made Ammacha’s vibe more iconic?

It was his voice.

He had a deep, warm baritone, kind of like Amitabh Bachchan (as Ammamma often jokes) but not as bass-heavy. Though he never had any training in music, whenever he sang, it was always pitch perfect.

And whenever he spoke otherwise, you couldn’t help but shut up and listen.

Ammacha, not going to lie, had rizz that no one has. He was, in some way, a Gen-Z from the Silent Generation.

You’d look at a person like him and wonder, right? This man must’ve had it all easy.

Wrong. 

Easy wasn’t the adjective one would use if they talked about Ammacha’s life.

If we go by the official records, Ammacha was born exactly 90 years ago. On May 1^st, 1934. In an India that was still ruled by the British Empire.

However, like a lot of Indians who were born in that era, his actual birthdate was never officially documented. We speculate that he was actually born somewhere between end-September to early-October under a star called Bharani, if we go by the South Indian Hindu calendar. But we really don’t know, for sure.

Ammacha was the fourth child (and the only son) of a well-off Nair family to a landlord called Krishnan Nair and his wife, Madhukutty. 

Ammamma tells me Ammacha’s father had a lot of land, food and his early childhood was relatively comfortable. In fact, they were so wealthy that his older sister, Ammu (who, I always had a feeling, was his favourite among all his four sisters because she could always effortlessly weasel him into paying her staff gift money whenever he met her - a feat that none of us could ever achieve), even had a music tutor. Which, according to Ammamma, was very bougee for those times.

But sadly, this wealth was… temporary.

When he was about 12 years old, Ammacha lost his father. As a result of this, his family’s financial condition deteriorated over time.

Luckily, his three older sisters, Madhavi, Meenakshi, and Ammu, got married on time (the only necessity for women of that era) and so, they had support from their in-laws and were 'settled', so to speak. 

But unluckily, Ammacha and his younger sister, Lakshmikutty, had to grow up in far more precarious circumstances as compared to the childhood that their older sisters had led.

On some level, this really wasn’t a healthy environment for any child to live in, especially, with no father around and dwindling funds. So, it was natural that children Ammacha, in his teens, would act out. Loaf about with fakkad people. And miss more classes than he’d take in schools.

In fact, much later in his life, he once joked to Ammamma, “You know? Even if I didn’t attend class, my teachers never asked about me. That’s how absent I used to be.”

Ironically, though, despite his lack of academic inclination, Ammacha did surprisingly well in school. His pre-degree scores were quite high, considering his troubling circumstances. We discovered that fairly recently, when we went through his old marksheets. 

Sometimes, I imagine how things would’ve been different, if he had mentors guiding him. He could’ve gone to a proper college, like my Achacha and granduncles did. And he could’ve truly gone places. 

Sadly, though, the cards that were given to Ammacha at that time weren’t in his favour. But despite all of that?

He was a fighter. Until the very end. 

By his early 20s, Ammacha realized that he needed to get his act together. So, he started off as a temporary teacher at the local school. That didn't pan out the way he'd hoped. 

Post this, he took up a small job at a local factory in Kozhikode along with a relative of his. But that didn’t last long either.

By 24, Ammacha had realized he had bigger ambitions. And so, he set his sights on the City of Dreams: Bombay.

Big Breaks in Bombay

Bombay in 1950s was truly a vibe. For someone from a remote village in Kerala, living in a city like that felt like a dream. And this dream seemed all the more awe-inspiring for someone like Ammacha, who was always fascinated by the city’s glamour.

As fate would have it, by 1958, my grandfather moved to Mumbai and make his mark in the world.

He got an entry job at a chemicals factory and throughout the first half of 1960s, he hustled hard. Worked day in, and day out - like a kaalavandi or a kudravandi, as he'd remark to us, much later. After going crazy, he'd then come back home,  tired, to a small room he rented in Parel, along with twenty or so people.

Whenever he’d go back home to Kerala, no one could ever tell he was working inhumane hours and suffering. All they saw was polished, refined Chandrasekharan Nair – the village rogue reformed as a Big Important Person from Bombay.

And he did nothing to break that illusion. He’d visit home whenever he could, meet his mother, his sisters, his long list of nieces and nephews (a list which kept growing like a convoluted Permutations and Combinations problem). He made sure that nobody worried and assured them that everything was great. 

Deep down, Ammacha knew that this couldn't last long. He knew that he had to work harder. He knew that he couldn’t stay stagnant in the same role and he knew he had to move forward. As a result, in addition to his mountain of work, he started upskilling as well.

To begin with, he started hanging out with an English gentleman (no one knows how that happened) to learn how to speak English well. 

For you see, in a newly independent India, knowing English was like gaining access to a goldmine of opportunities. Even today, in many remote places within the country, knowing English is equated to being a genius.  

And back in the 1960s India? Learning English was one of the only ways through which Ammacha could make it.

By 1966, somehow, he’d risen up the ranks to become a timekeeper at the factory. And it was then, he decided to save up to by a flat in Mumbai and get married.

As was the custom in those times, Ammacha quickly got engaged to Ammamma, who was the granddaughter of a timber merchant called Unni Nair, his dad’s drinking buddy. 

Ammamma had no clue who he was until the day they got married and her three brothers (aka my favourite granduncles) hated this match but couldn’t do anything about it. 

(Why? Because who on earth would ever take advice on marriage from two 20-something-year-olds and a teenager? Even Sima Taparia, with her 100% failure rate in matchmaking, would never.)

Around this time, sadly, Madhukutty, Ammacha’s mother, passed away.

Her demise hit him very badly. Because he’d spent the last so many years struggling to make it and he unfortunately never gotten a chance to spend time with her.

Even years later, when he was older and whenever he’d mention his mother’s name, he’d get teary-eyed. It was the rarest of rare sights to see someone who projected himself to be so strong show vulnerability that no one around him could truly understand. 

Somehow, while I know how it must’ve killed him on the inside, Ammacha refused to give up. Soon after, he got a small flat in a very lively neighbourhood called Nehru Nagar in Kurla, married my Ammamma in February 1967 and brought her there.

Within the next six years, they had two kids – my mom and her younger brother, my uncle.

By this time, Ammacha’s priorities became all the more clear: his kids should grow up and do well. And he knew he had to do his best to ensure that his kids got the best of everything, despite their circumstances. 

As a result, throughout the 1970s and 1980s, he worked harder than ever before. Became all the more organized and meticulous with everything he did. He even got a correspondence BA degree from some arcane university in Madhya Pradesh. He grew professionally so much to the point that he had a good equation with his mild-mannered Parsi boss, who he called Rustom seth.

As a father, while he wasn’t exactly the most lovey-dovey types, he made sure that his kids had rock-solid stability. And he made sure Ammamma was well-provided for too.  

During the weekends, he’d take Ammamma, mom and uncle to watch Hindi movies, religiously. For he loved movies, especially the action masala movies from the 1970s. He thought Amitabh Bachchan and Dharmendra were iconic and he adored Hema Malini so much that he’d stand up in respect whenever she’d come on screen.

Even decades later, when the Malayalam dubs of Bahubali graced Asianet, Ammacha loved every minute of it. Hell, he even cackled with joy and clapped his hands when Katappa killed Bahubali. It was like Christmas had come early for him.  

If I think about it now, these movie theatre trips, in a way, is why my mother and uncle love cinema and pop culture so much. And this love, in turn, has been  passed down to me and my seventeen-year-old cousin. You see, more than anything else, both of us love watching movies on Netflix, yak-yaking about Bollywood movies and gossip about the celebrities.

I’ve never really thought about it that way before writing this, dear reader. But it makes sense, no? Somehow, my grandfather’s biggest hobby passed down to all of us. 

Now, coming back to Ammacha’s story.  

Of course, it wasn’t a bed of roses for him. This time period was also the time when there was a lot of anti-South Indian sentiment in Maharashtra politically. People like my grandfather – working professionals from the south who came to Mumbai – were perceived as opportunists who had to be kicked out.

And Ammacha also didn’t take things lying down either. Unlike a lot of professionals I know (myself included), Ammacha had the courage to be disliked. Let's be honest, he was disliked by many at his workplace.

If he knew something was wrong at work, he would never hesitate to speak up and call it out. He’d get into fights, get beaten up by union members and would become very unpopular.

Once, things got so bad in the 1980s that he was given police protection by his comapny. What the hell, things had gotten so horribly wrong that they actually contemplated to move back to Kerala. First, my mom was sent to Kozhikode for college and she had to stay with my granduncles.  Around this time, my uncle, a pre-teen, was bracing himself for the worst.

Even then, Ammacha didn’t give in. Somehow, my grandpa stuck to his dream and he knew that if he wanted to give his kids the best of everything, Mumbai had to be the place. As much as he loved Kerala, he knew the sleepy village of Pookad in Kozhikode (as beautiful as it is) wouldn't give his children the opportunities that Mumbai offered. 

It worked out well in the end.

By the time 1990s rolled in, Ammacha had been promoted to be a Personnel Manager at VVF, a chemical company that sold Doy soaps. 

Life had finally become comfortable for them. My mom and uncle had started working at the Railways and Shoppers Stop respectively, so they had money for themselves and they could, after decades of hustling and saving, start living, for a change. 

By the end of 1996, this idyllic scenario had transformed. My mom got married and a year later, I was born. This, in turn, kickstarted a new chapter in Ammacha’s life.

Grumpy Gramps With A Heart Of Gold

On the rainy Saturday morning in September, when my mother went into labour and my grandparents were scrambling to get ready to take her to the hospital, Ammamma caught Ammacha sneakily take out a pair of baby clothes from the shelf.

It turned out, Ammacha had already bought clothes for me, before I was even born.

Even today, she thought it was one of the funniest things he ever did and tells me this story with a fond smile on her face. 

And if I think about it, it is a profoundly beautiful thing. This man had no idea who I’d turn out to be and this memory really captured his excitement to have me around.

After I was born, though, he’d never tell me how much he cared. Most of the time, he’d always get annoyed with me and would make it no secret that I was a brat. 

Now that I look back, I was, a bit of a brat by his military standards. Unlike my mother and uncle, who were really obedient as children, I was… a bit too hyperactive for him and  Ammamma.

And they had the full-time job of raising me. My mom had to go back to work after her maternity leave and my dad was in Baroda, running the family business with his uncles – so he couldn’t stay in Mumbai.

As a result, the responsibility of raising an intensely hyperactive toddler like me fell squarely on my grandparents.

As a toddler, I was chaotic. I’d always run to my playgroup and never walk, like a Road Runner on a sugar rush. And he’d have to chase after me, utterly annoyed at the fact that he, the feared Personnel Manager had to give into the whims of his daughter's chaotic child. 

There was one time when I – being the drama queen of a two-year-old I was – threw my Minnie Mouse school bag in the gutter because I had no mood to go to school. And  Ammacha – with his acute Sheldon Cooper-esque germophobia – got so disgruntled that he had to pick up my bag from the gutter, he forgot he was dealing with a toddler and got so mad at me. 

That's not all, there would be many times, when I’d run off somewhere, give him and Ammamma a minor panic attack and before they knew it, our neighbours from the neighbourhood would’ve brought me back home.

And I’d always be smiling toothily, all coolly, as if I’ve not given my grandparents any reason to panic at all.

But he had fun with me. He would buy me pretty clothes. And get the wildly popular Doy Soaps as return gifts for my birthday. 

As I grew older, Ammacha finally retired from work. That meant, Ammamma had more active support from him in raising me, especially when my mom went to work.

Then, he had a set routine, which would go like this:

• Every day, he’d wake up at around 5 and get ready. 
• By 6:30, he'd go for his ½ hour morning walk. 
• He'd come back by 7 and have breakfast. 
• From 7:30 till 12 pm, he'd diligently work on his FDs and shares in gazillion esoteric banks, while creating gazillion meticulously filled-out files about them. During this process, he would call up the bank employees, harass them and threaten to complain to their managers. 
• By 5 pm, after a nap, he'd get ready for his evening walk with other retired Malayali uncles and come back home.

Amid this routine, he and I would squabble regularly. Ammacha would always think that any device that went for a toss at home? Was my fault.

“Aa penne chedhitindavum!” He’d always grunt and blame me, whenever the TV remote control that he’d meticulously wrapped in five layers of plastic and rubber bands went for a toss. He'd never apply the logic that the battery must have died. It was always my fault. 

And I’d fight back, because every evening – from six thirty PM till 10 PM – he’d dominate the TV and watch a series of corny Malayalam serials in a row.

If you think, dear reader, that Ekta Kapoor’s serials sucked, you’ve clearly not seen Malayalam shows.

I still remember, how I used to get really peeved when he’d watch those serials. Because it was during those times, my favourite show, Shararat, would be on.

That’s not all. Ammacha was a hoarder of all stationary and loved new things. He would sneakily steal my best stationary and goodies away for himself and would throw a big fit if I dared to use his ruler or calculator.  

Though we fought a lot for a senior citizen and a school-going child, if there was one thing Ammacha was proud of, it was the fact that I did decently in school. He'd gotten me enrolled at DAV, a new school at the time, but a school that he felt would do wonders for my growth. 

He’d never say it to my face, ever. But he was quite smug about the fact that I got good grades, way more than anyone else I know (including myself). Kind of like Richard Gilmore used to be, about his granddaughter, Rory.

And like Richard Gilmore, Ammacha was a pillar of strength for me.

You see, I have a bit of a weird childhood. That’s why, I’m so bizarre and till date, been viewed with abject scepticism and curiosity by many people my age.

My mother worked (and still works) for the Indian Railways in Mumbai and my father had his family business in Baroda. Geographically, the distance between Mumbai and Baroda is huge. As a result, my mom had to a lot of heavy lifting of my early childhood on her own.

Because of this, children like me (and children with circumstances worse than me) often have a target on our backs. We’re easier for bullies to bully because they find comfort in knowing that there’s no one looking out for us.

Children with a background like mine, or backgrounds all the more tragic than mine, need someone to look out for them, if their parents are unable to do so. They need that sense of confidence to weather such storms and guidance to be better human beings than their bullies (and that’s a huge task in itself because it's not easy to be Miss Manners when you've been treated like some insecure dweeb's punching bag!)

My grandparents gave me that unshakable stability. They were there for my mother and me, all throughout my childhood and well until my adulthood till now. 

Ammamma is my ultimate gossip-buddy. She has all the tea about my peers and remembers each tidbit with clear detail. It sounds a little perplexing to some of my friends, but I tell her and my seventeen-year-old cousin everything, despite the huge age gaps we have. It’s a fact that mystifies my mother too – because she cannot fathom how her twenty-six-year-old daughter can have such a strong wavelength with a seventy-six-year-old woman and a seventeen-year-old teenager.

Ammacha, on the other hand, was our protector. He'd get really mad if anyone tried to con us and wouldn't stand for it.

And he was always by my side, during some of the toughest times of my life. One memory, that I feel I can confidently write about, without bursting into tears, is when my Ammamma was hospitalized due to tuberculosis, ten years ago. Ammacha would sit next to me and pat my forehead till I fell asleep. He'd do that because the night she got hospitalized and my mother had to be there, he and I were the only ones at home and I couldn't stop crying. 

All throughout my life, Ammacha was my rock. He was the only stable person in my life when everything else would fall apart. And believe me, if you know me well, there have been quite a few instances like that. 

It's not just for me. Ammacha was the MVP for my entire immediate family. 

Ammamma, though she’d get massively annoyed by his antics, cared deeply about him and would feel bad if people made fun of him. He provided for her and gave her the stability that she needed, especially given the fact that she was the daughter of a widow and her childhood was far from easy. 

Her mother, my Kunyamma, too had the highest regard for him. While she'd roll her eyes whenever he'd brag, she really empathized with all that he'd been through and gave him the security of a home in Kerala. 

Ammamma's brothers, my granduncles, too grew to like him over the years. Sure, her older brothers, would make fun of some of the most ludricious things Ammacha would say (and I'll admit, he'd made some really outrageous comments around them), they did have high regard for him.  

As for Ammacha's children, my mother and uncle, were devoted to Ammacha  – they pampered him way more than his parents, Krishnan and Madhukutty, would’ve ever done. Even a blind man could see how much they loved him and were grateful for all that he did for them. And as a father, Ammacha did a lot. 

Sadly though, since the last few years, Ammacha had started facing issues from dementia due to old age. He'd forget things. Lapse into an older version of himself at times. Ask us about court hearings. And sometimes, just be like a little child. Given that his dementia slowly deteriorated his health, we even moved to my uncle’s place near Jupiter Hospital. This was to ensure that Ammacha could easily go for regular checkups.

Yet, despite this, he never forgot his children, my Ammamma, daughter-in-law, son-in-law, my granduncles and their wives, me or my cousins. Every time, in the last three years, I'd ask him everyone's names and he'd remember us all, very well. 

Things were peaceful till this April. I work from home because my team's global - so every day, in the background, between calls, I'd hear Ammacha yakyaking on. 

By late evening, after work, I’d go to his room and chat with him merrily. He’d unintentionally teach me the choicest of Malayali swear words and give me the cheekiest responses to my inane questions, which sounded all the more adorable because he'd have taken his dentures off. Every night, after our conversations, I’d tell him goodnight thrice, and he would say goodnight back thrice, in a way that would make my Ammamma giggle like a little schoolgirl.

And now... he’s no more.

It breaks my heart to write that sentence.

You see, about three weeks ago, Ammacha passed away peacefully in his sleep, after a bout of cold and chest congestion.

On some level, I’m told I should be glad that he had no pain, no suffering. Some, from a good place, tell me to move on, get a grip. 

But tell me something, dear reader? How are you supposed to quickly move on from the fact that one of the very few people who have been there with you and for you since the day you’re born is gone?

I’ve truly felt like a zombie in the last few weeks, I’ll be honest. There are times, when I find myself remembering Ammacha – painstakingly searching for every memory I have of his, through photographs.

And there are times when I listen to Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen on loop. That was the song I used to listen to, back when I was studying in NCR and I’d play it whenever I missed Ammacha. Weirdly, Leonard Cohen looked a bit like Ammacha and even sounds a bit like him.

Unlike then, whenever I listen to Hallelujah now, I cry. Because letting out emotions as soon as you can, according to me, is the best way to cope with grief. Bottling up grief may seem mature but the truth is? The ones who bottle up their grief and don't let it out, are going to experience an excruciating amount of pain, when they cannot hold it together. 

The other times, though, I try to be constructive. Bit by bit, I try to pick myself up and take care of my office projects or write. 

Though I’ve not been the best at replying to my colleagues at work, I am trying my best to keep myself engaged, in whatever way I can. 

While these few weeks have been extremely difficult for me and my family, I’m extremely grateful that we had tremendous support from our family and friends.

During his funeral, my uncle’s friends and colleagues ran the show. As a family that had no idea how Malayali funerals worked, we were all like headless chickens. They really helped us and were there for us. 

Even my mom’s best friend, Tejas Aunty, and my childhood best friend, Sanika were there at the funeral for moral support. Tejas Aunty really helped us on the first day, even after the funeral was over.

In a way, it was poetic.

Ammacha used to, without fail, without bias, help several families out whenever there was a death. He didn’t care about semantics like caste or community. He supported grieving families and made the arrangements, without worry.

Over the course of the last few weeks – our friends have been constantly helping us navigate our way through this shock. My mom’s friends came over. My uncle’s friends came over. Their old neighbours from their neighbourhood in Kurla came over. My friends, Parigha and Puloma, came over too. 

In fact, those of my friends who couldn’t come have been keeping in touch with me virtually regularly. My best friends from college and my fellowship - they've all been incredibly supportive. 

Even my seniors and colleagues at work have been extremely empathetic and they’ve all been there for me, though I know I haven’t been as efficient as I’d like to be. 

I really, from the bottom of my heart, have the hugest amount of gratitude for these people. I really am. 

And I’m even more so, so thankful that Ammacha’s funeral ceremony was done so beautifully. He, of all people, deserved a good send-off.

Ultimately, you know what I’m the most grateful for, dear reader?

That I had the privilege to be Chandrasekharan Krishnan Nair’s granddaughter. And that I could spend the first twenty-six years of my life with him by my side.

In the end, all I want to say is: my grandfather was a force of nature. He wasn’t exactly lovable at first sight – because he was extremely blunt and would blurt out things that are best left silent.

But deep down, he was a genuinely nice person who didn’t let the bad things in life affect him, though he never resorted to flattery and niceties. 

In some way, as cheesy as this sounds (but fuck cheesy), all of us – his children and grandchildren – will carry his legacy forward, in some way or the other.

My mother looks a lot like him and and has his ability to fight for what’s right. My uncle’s calmer, like Ammamma, but you can see Ammacha’s reflection in him when you see him take care of my cousins and me. 

My seventeen-year-old cousin is a dynamite like him and can give retorts that would make him proud. Her younger sister, my ten-year-old cousin, too has his ability to do well effortlessly in school, no matter what. She’s a quiet one, but full of wonderful surprises.

As for me?

I think I have his inane ability to blurt out things that are best left silent. I’d be a gazillionaire if I count the number of times my friends would roll their eyes and tell me how offensive and politically incorrect my statements tend to be.

And I think I have his love for organizing things and noting everything down meticulously. Though I’m nowhere near as fastidious as him, I get a great deal of joy in organizing my stuff and hoarding stationary. Like he used to. 

You know, the other day, my parents and I went back to the old house to clear things. And I found myself surrounded by all my old stuff from school and college. 

I had a separate notebook for each subject I'd studied - complete with detailed notes and highlights. If that wasn't it, I had folders with all my old exam papers, circulars, and other stuff organized. Heck, even on my desktop, I'd fastidiously organized all my photographs into a zillion folders - complete with dates and the places where these photos were taken. 

The method I'd used to be so systematic? Was just like how Ammacha used to have. Ammacha, as I've mentioned before, was a stationary nutjob. And apart from my stuff in that house, every other corner was filled with his old files and notes. 

Oh my god, I just realized. This has got to be my longest post yet. 

Dear reader, I can write an entire book about Ammacha, if I could. This book would be so big that it’d win the Guiness Book of World Record for the biggest book in the history of this world.

And I probably will, some day. His story deserves to be shared. 

There’s so much I can tell you about my Ammacha, I'm not even joking. He was a powerful institution who touched so many lives and inspired us to keep going, even when nothing seemed to work out.

Having him in our lives was God’s biggest blessing to me and all of us in our family. And while the void of his loss will never go away, I want to make sure that we carry all that he taught us forward.

Stay awesome as ever, dear reader. Take care of your loved ones while you still have them. And tell them you love them. Always. 

Much love,

Archie <3