A Song for Swansong

Nine.

That's how old I was, when I discovered my love for writing. 

I still remember it all so vividly.

I remember scribbling 'poetry' in lurid green pens, plotting 'novels' in lined Sundaram and Classmates notebooks, and writing 'scripts' for my school plays like the pseudo-thespian that my pre-adolescent self was. 

Even though I was far from perfect, I was supercalifragilisticexpialidociously lucky in one aspect: 

I had a close-knit group of people who always encouraged me to keep writing, keep having my own voice, and keep sharing, no matter what. 

And the leader of this small pack? Was my maternal granduncle, Narayan V. Who we all fondly called as Tadi Mama.  

Tadi Mama, if you read this entire blog, complete with the comments on each post, would often go by the pseudonym of Swansong. 

And this blog article? Is for him. 

The boy who grew up a little too soon

Chances are, if you're reading this blog, you know me reasonably well. 

If you know me reasonably well, you probably know a fair bit about my Ammamma (maternal grandmother) and her family. I'm also quite sure that I'd have probably told you about my incredibly brave, incredibly resilient great-grandmother, my very own Kunyamma.

As you may (or may not - if you accidentally stumbled across this post!) know, Kunyamma was a single mother. 

For you see, my great-grandfather passed away around the time she was thirty. And in no time, the poor woman had to shoulder the burden of taking care of the fields, the administration of the local school, and four very young children. 

And the oldest of them? Was Tadi Mama.

As a boy, from what Ammamma always tells me, of her three brothers, Tadi Mama was very serene, composed even. He'd rarely flare up and would take things in his stride - quite unlike his three siblings. 

Shankar Mama, the next in line, was the more outspoken one. Though he and Tadi Mama were close in age, he'd bicker about all things under the sun like a feral alley cat, much unlike his present, more zen personality.

And Ammamma, the third child and the only daughter? Was very emotional (unlike her stoic self presently). She'd cry at the drop of a hat and would look for creative ways to NOT to go to school. Which would enrage the already overburdened, over-exhausted Kunyamma even more. 

Rajan Mama, the youngest of the lot, was very mischievous. Ammamma often tells me, he'd flee from Kunyamma's wrath at the speed of light after saying something really cheeky.

In midst of this madness though, Tadi Mama was as steady as a rock.

Now that I think about it, after Kunyamma, he probably had it the toughest. Unlike his younger siblings, who were significantly young, pre-teen Tadi Mama was the one who actively saw his father dying a painful death. 

And once he was gone? 

It was all up to Tadi Mama, who at twelve, had to be the man of the house. Be there for his grieving mother, with too much on her shoulders, and younger siblings, who were far too young to comprehend the trauma that had hit them like a trainwreck. 

The lit lit grad and his travelogues

Despite the troubling circumstances he was in, Tadi Mama was erudite. In no time, he got into St. Joseph's College, one of Kozhikode's most prestigious institutions at the time. After this, he went on to do an MA in English Literature. 

This made him one of the most educated people in our native village, Pookad. 

Like Rajan Mama, he taught for a bit, I'm told, at one of the local schools.  Rajan Mama continued, though, and now, years later, is fondly known in Pookad as Rajan maash (maash meaning teacher in Malayalam). 

Around this time (perhaps before, or after, I could be wrong), Tadi Mama stayed extensively with his mama, Kunyamma's brother, Balan mama and family, in Calicut. And along with this, he helped out Kunyamma with her endless chores. 

As long as I remember, he also tirelessly volunteered at this centre called Manas with mental disabilities and rarely, was one of the very few people I know, who, from the very beginning was an advocate for mental health and wellbeing. Additionally, he also volunteered for environmental causes and was fond of animals. 

Once, he literally brought a monkey home. 

Yep, you read that right. A monkey. 

Much to the chagrin of Kunyamma, for a brief while, Raman kurangan was a part of the Vellanthote household. In the end, poor Rajanmama had to take care of him.

In his free time, though? 

He loved listening to music and read. His library was so extensive and expansive, it would leave you in awe. And that's not all.

Tadi Mama was a traveler in the truest sense of the word. In an era where traveling was not for the 'gram, Tadi Mama would embark on these really intense expeditions to the hinterlands of India. Assam, Chitrakoot, an offbeat hill called Kutiyaadi in India - he'd visited them all. 

Along the way, he also made some friends from abroad. And on occasion, they'd come and visit him in Kerala. 

But that wasn't what he was known for. He was... 

Everyone's favourite Tadi Mama

At this point, I'm sure, you must be wondering:

Why was Tadi Mama called Tadi Mama and not Narayan, his good name? 

You'd have to thank my mother for that.

For you see, perhaps it was since the dawn of time, but...

Tadi Mama's entire face? Was covered in beard or tadi, as what a beard is called in Malayalam. 

And my mother, being the spirited toddler that she was, called him Tadi Mama as soon as she learned to speak. 

Before one knew it, along with her, her younger brother (more commonly featured in my blog as my uncle, Unni Mama) and their three young cousins started calling him Tadi Mama!  

And that continued years later too. When all of us seven great-granddaughters of Kunyamma came into the picture? All of us called him Tadi Mama as well. 

(In fact, if I'm being honest with you, my best friends, Nidhi and Khyati, call him Tadi Mama too!)

Unlike his siblings, Tadi Mama never went down the traditional path. He never married and had kids.

A fact that I never thought much of it, back when I was younger. But now? I do wonder. Why did he never tread down the conventional path? 

When I ask my Ammamma this, she often tells me, "He always said, 'I may not be married, but I have many children of my own.'" 

And those children? Were his nieces and nephews. 

Ever since I can remember, Tadi Mama was a constant presence and a pillar of support for our side of the family. 

From left to right (or is it right to left?): Shankar Mama in blue, Rajan Mama at the center and Tadi Mama in grey 

He (and even Shankar Mama and Rajan Mama, for that matter) really wanted my grandmother to become a teacher, for she was (and is) undisputedly intelligent and did really well in school. However, given the society that they lived in the 1960s, she couldn't become one and was, as they say, 'married off'. 

Yet, he continued to advocate for her - and by extension, her children - a lot. He insisted that everyone - including her - got a fair share of the family resources and was quite just in that regard. 

For my mom and uncle, when it came to the most important people in their lives, Tadi Mama came right after Ammamma and Ammacha. Though I know they love Shankar Mama and Rajan Mama a lot too, Tadi Mama was just... magic for them. 

He introduced them to a world beyond the siloed realm of Pookad. A world full of books, music, culture, and more. My mom and uncle still reminisce about the sweets he'd bring from Calicut for them, how he'd have friends come over and they'd discuss politics, and how he'd play music on his gramophone. 

I think their love for him was passed down to me and my darling cousins, my uncle's two daughters. Especially me, because I'm the oldest of us three. 

Tadi Mama and me

I was an ordinary kid, growing up. No standout stalwart. Far from it, actually. 

But there was one thing that I found out I was decent-ish at, quite young: writing. 

I picked it up soon after I started reading at the age of nine. Maybe, it was a way to express myself and make sense of the complex world that I was living in, dealing with dynamics that were way too complicated for any normal nine-year-old to take on.

In no time, I found myself scribbling in diaries, writing 'poetry', and kept getting immersed in it for hours at a stretch. 

Before I knew it, writing was like breathing to me. Of course, I didn't write like Dickens at the age of 12. But I wasn't bad as a writer, you know at a pre-adolescent level.

Now, given that I was a pretty ordinary, pretty inconspicuous kid, I wasn't... discovered and lauded for my literary merits, per se. 

During school, very few people actually knew that I wrote, and far fewer actively critiqued and encouraged me. 

And the one who encouraged me the most? Was Tadi Mama. 

Whenever he came to visit us in Bombay or we'd go down to Kerala to visit him or whenever I e-mailed him my pieces, he'd read each piece I wrote fastidiously. Tell me what I could do better and always encouraged me to read different books across genres. 

When I started blogging, he'd read each post and tell me what worked and what didn't. Even when the whole world didn't comment (despite me spamming relentlessly on Facebook), he'd always comment. And from his comments, you could tell that he'd read and understood each and every line I'd written. 

It wasn't just writing too, you know. 

Tadi Mama was one of the people who really had my best interests at heart. 

I still remember so vividly, about seven years ago, when I graduated from the Young India Fellowship program. It was a one-year postgraduate program in liberal arts and there were many around me, who were batshit crazy into thinking that I'd done such a course. 

In fact, I'm told that there were some who even went on to tell others that I was, for sure, not getting a job after doing that that course. 

Tadi Mama never, not even for a second, thought it was a bad decision. Yet, like any concerned elder, he too was quite concerned when I started job hunting. I still remember him calling me regularly, asking me, "How are you doing? How's your job search going? Any interviews yet?"

And when I finally got one? And a writing job at that?

He was one of the happiest.

It's been nearly 7-ish years since I started working full-time. And a huge foundation of this career lies on writing. A craft that Tadi Mama helped me hone the most. 

I know I'm far from perfect at writing. But whatever positive growth I've seen in this craft? Is all thanks to him, and only him. 

My biggest regret though? I couldn't meet him one last time. 

Gone before goodbyes

As uncomfortable as it is for me to write this bit, the last few years of Tadi Mama's life... were rough. 

Kunyamma's death in 2018 had hit him the worst, of all the four siblings. He missed her terribly and with age and perhaps, with grief, he'd become very grumpy. 

The onset of COVID-19 right after made things significantly worse. With the endless lockdowns and the shitstorm that was going on, hardly anybody except for Shankar Mama and Rajan Mama, came to visit him. 

By November 2021, he'd fallen ill. He got a neurological disease that nobody could truly understand but him. He could hardly move, eat and by 2022, the other mamas had to hire caretakers to take care of him. 

The man who once could travel to the remotest corner of this country was now tied to his home. The man who helped so many was now helpless in a way that none of us could truly comprehend. 

In 2022, though, we could meet him twice. Once, during the summer holidays in May, and the second time, when we came for Shankar Mama's granddaughter's wedding. 

During both those visits, Tadi Mama was slowly becoming a shell of himself. He was deeply saddened by his condition, yet when all of the family's children and grandchildren came along? His spirits did seem to lift.  

After the second visit in 2022, I decided to skip my visits to Kerala for a bit and didn't accompany my parents when they went there. I got swept into my work, my second post-grad's assignments, my German exam preps, and just being a melodramatic hypochondriac about my next career move. 

I kept in touch with Tadi Mama through phone, though. He'd ask me when I'd get married and I'd tell him, it will happen when it has to happen.

He, like my Ammacha, was quite concerned about that part of my life. He really wanted me to 'settle down'. 

I'd take it easy when he'd tell me. But deep down, I'd pray that he'd be around to see me get married.  

The saddest thing is? That didn't happen.

For you see, early April last year, around the tithi when my grandfather, Ammacha, had passed, my mom, uncle, aunt, and I were planning to go to Badlapur to perform the first-year-death-anniversary ceremonies for him. 

However, we never ended up going there. 

At around five in the morning, my mom got a call from Shankar Mama. He told her that Tadi Mama - who'd been hospitalised for a month - had passed away at three thirty in the morning. 

My mom was numb with shock as she told us this, the minute she ended the call. 

And my Ammamma?

My normally stoic Ammamma, the woman who stayed strong when her husband died, held on to me and started weeping. 

I'll never, ever forget that, you know? 

They say, adulting is doing the right things. Get married on time, have kids on time, buy a house on time - everyone has this perception that adulting is only limited to following this checklist. 

Nobody - absolutely nobody - prepares you for circumstances like these... where the one person who raised you against all odds, breaks down in front of you, clings onto you and cries for a brother who was there for her through thick and thin. 

That, dear reader, was one of the most heartbreaking moments I've experienced in my life. 

In that moment, it hit me that my grandmother wasn't just my grandmother. She was, after all this time, still the poor little girl who lost her father too young and had her older brother take on much more than what he could possibly have. 

Seeing her like that... I broke down crying too. And that's not all.

Tadi Mama dying, to me, felt like being sucker-punched in the same area where I was sucker-punched exactly a year ago, when my Ammacha died. 

My aunt and uncle came a few hours later and stayed with us till the afternoon, both as numb as my mom. By the time they came, even my mom started crying too and none of us ended up going to Badlapur. 

Instead, a few days later, my uncle, Ammamma, and I went to Kerala.

And it just wasn't the same. 

The old Vellanthote houses there... they didn't seem warm anymore. 

And every corner reminded us of the ones we'd lost in these last few years... Kunyamma, Ammacha, and now Tadi Mama. 

The last night before we left, my uncle, Rajan Mama, and I went to the newer house, the one where Tadi Mama stayed. For a while, we just sifted through his old belongings... old photographs from his traveller days, his watches, his endless books in his old-timey bookshelf, and all his things that he'd orderly set aside. 

Until I discovered his diaries. 

Curiosity got the better of me. And I found myself turning the pages, trying to read all the musings he'd written, all the memories that were stored, remembering the essence of who Tadi Mama was until...

Until I heard his voice ringing in my head... 

"Don't read that! Diaries are personal, private and you're not supposed to read it." 

That voice? Came from an old, old memory from 2012. Back when I was a very awkward 15-year-old-anxiously-prepping-for-her-board-exams and I'd come with my uncle, aunt, and now-soon-to-be-20-year-old-but-was-six-years-old-in-2012 cousin. 

Back then, I'd randomly picked up an old diary of Rajan Mama's daughter, Shalini Chechi, and I was just flipping through the pages. I don't remember what she'd written but before I could go any further, Tadi Mama had caught me. 

And so many years later, his words came fluttering back to me. Right at the moment when I picked up his diary. 

With a bit of a wry smile, I shut the book, without reading what was next. A part of me was still curious, but another part of me? Knew that he'd get really grouchy if I read his diaries and start telling me off.  

***

Tadi Mama did way more than what was asked of a maternal uncle or a granduncle in our Malayali society. Or any society, for that matter.

He was there for my grandparents, my mother, uncle, aunt, and me during what I think is one of the darkest phases for our family, especially when not many were. 

And it wasn't just us. I know that there are many people out there, whose lives he'd touched and he'd made better. 

He truly was one of the most extraordinary gentlemen out there and it is one of our family's biggest privileges that he was a such a huge part of it. He was complex, as most people are, yet he had the warmest heart and a spirit so pure and genuine, not many have it. 

Dear reader, this has been one of the hardest pieces I've ever written. You won't believe it, but... it took me more than a year to put this down. 

I keep thinking so many thoughts like... "Why didn't I go to Kerala to visit him one last time? Why didn't I just get married just so he could see me get married? Why can't my future kids ever get to meet him, this incredible person who made so much difference for not just me, but my mother, uncle, grandmother, and so many others?" 

Yet, here I am. Done with this piece. But still wrestling with these regrets. 

Take care, dear reader. 

And remember Tadi Mama and celebrate him for the extraordinary person he was, whenever you can.

~ Archie :)