A eulogy for Ambooken uncle

This is going to be a eulogy for someone I respect immensely. His closed ones were shocked to know of his passing on 8th May. This was my appachan (dad)'s best friend, they have known each other for more than 35 years. As I write this I am not even able to begin to fathom the finality of life.

A friend affects all spheres of one's life. And so did Ambooken uncle appachan's. He was a father like figure for me in many ways. The only reason I was sent to a school 24 kms away from home was his persistence in persuading amma and appachan. Even a slight bit of apprehension appachan had, he wiped away by strongly pointing out how girls should be very well educated. I think he played the biggest role in clearing amma's reluctance to send a 4 year old in a jeep traveler so far away to school insisting on our bright future. Amma and appachan were also comforted by his presence so close to school. So in a way what and where my sister are in life, we owe it to him.

There have been numerous times when appachan had been called to school urgently due to some injury we had or some sickness. And each time we knew in 10 minutes time Ambooken uncle would be at school, because for my appachan to reach school would take at least an hour given the distance. This one time my sister hurt her chin and was bleeding profusely I was called in and made to tell appachan over phone how bad the situation was and that she might need immediate stitches. I remember I was so perplexed as a 11 year old when appachan asked how bad it was, sensing his tension. It took Ambooken uncle 5 minutes to be at school and the wave of relief I experienced when I saw him because I knew I could trust him to decide just like my dad would for Sara and me. Now when I am nearing 30 I realize what a great human he must be, because for a child to trust someone like their parent isn't that natural.

I have never seen a parent who is as proud of his children as he. I think this attitude also rubbed off on my appachan. Years later when George (his youngest son) and I met in college, we exchanged notes on the fact that how are dads asked us to learn from each other, which was surprising for both us because they never let their pride for their children down. But it also showed me how much my dad respected this man.

The man cannot be remembered without his sense of humor. He lights up every gathering. Years later even after leaving behind my nest whenever amma and appachan return from a colleague's party I ask if Ambooken uncle and Rinsy aunty were there, to know if the party was lively that was all was needed. Some of my best childhood memories are the numerous family trips we have taken. A particularly fond trip was the one to Darjeeling and Gangtok. Ambooken uncle used to make so much fun of appachan's paunch and how appachan is a few months pregnant. 20 years or so after the trip, we still laugh over that joke. His jokes were never hurtful and I have started realizing how that is the kind of humor this world needs more of.

He had a heart to help anyone in need. On the very same trip to Darjeeling, my sister fell sick on the train. He walked up and down the train compartments trying to find a doctor. When amma's brother (for him, his friend's brother in law) was in hospital for a major surgery, he inquired regularly for my uncle's health and even visited my uncle. That is how much he valued every relationship.

My dad retired from office a year ago and Ambooken unlce, 10 days ago. My dad was really looking forward to enjoying their retired life together. It was going to be a lot of trips like the old days and my parents were really excited for this phase of their life. I also knew they had a great companion in Ambooken uncle for their lives ahead and it was always a sense of relief to know that. Our loss is nothing compared to his family's. The short span he lived, he did live a very happy life.

Ambooken uncle, as my eulogy 'Your memory lights up our lives. And I would like to say THANK YOU for being who you were.'

Anna

The story of the ink pen

Whoever knows me, knows my fetish for stationery. Like my roommate who is a behavioral economics student pointed out, it is an "unsophisticated present bias" which is a term used for consumers who know they have a problem but are not willing to change it to increase their utility. Anyhow I have recently shifted completely to using ink pens for the minimal writing I do. Do not be fooled, I have multiple ink pens and different colors of ink as well.

I filled my ink pen in the morning today and happened to write a lot that the ink ran out by the evening. This reminded me of something my grandmom always used to tell me “if you fill the ink once a week, there is enough to run for the whole week.” She could not be more wrong but I vehemently believed her and refused to check the ink level and it ran out on me every week at school, leaving me to borrow a pen from my classmates or shift to using a ball point pen. But this belief has stayed with me more like a superstition all through the years.

Everyone who is in their late twenties, as I am, would remember the famous ‘Hero’ pens as they were fondly called when we were in middle school. That is when we were allowed to shift from the pencils to the fountain pen. Later I got to know from my husband that they were known as ‘Chinese’ pen in his school. Somehow it all makes sense now. But I like the name ‘hero’ pens because it helps me reflect on the heroic entry they made into our lives. One of the biggest things we looked forward to in moving up to the 5^th grade in school was taking notes in pens than in the boring pencils. The boys of my school might have been keener about the 5^th grade because of their promotion into long trousers from the shorts. Such an important transitioning year the 5^th grade is. You also start having to take exams instead of worksheets.

So I owned a ‘hero’ pen too in my 5^th grade. Unfortunately or fortunately it was the one my dad used during his college days. I know, everyone must be thinking ‘ooh! fancy heirloom!’ Let me assure you there was nothing heirloomy about it. It was mostly because a ‘hero’ pen did cost a bit too much for a middle class family, this was the era privatization of the Indian economy had started only a decade earlier, so ‘Chinese’ pens were still very expensive. I think I did eventually get the cheaper and affordable ‘Camel ink pen’ (now Camlin since the Japanese company take over).

My hero pen unlike the new ones which my classmates owned, had a pliant tiny pump. The tininess of it cannot be overly emphasized. This ensured that I ran out of ink every single day. Then what was peculiar about my old ‘hero’ pen was it did not have a hooded fine nib, rather an arrow nib jutting out of the end of the pen. It did have the classic golden arrow on the nib nevertheless. This was proof for me that this was the ‘hero’ pen of yesteryears. It leaked and blotted profusely but I kept on because I believed in heirlooms and you are never to downplay them. Unless some days my classmates took fancy to this peculiar pen and exchanged mine with theirs – I would more than happily agree to the exchange because deep in my heart I knew the modern ‘hero’ pens worked better.

This time when I went home, my dad and I happened to go to a stationery shop to get some photocopies and I chanced upon the ‘hero’ pen. Interestingly like a 10 year old I pleaded my dad to get me one, because he was ticking me off for buying things I don’t need. These are things parents just won’t understand. To satisfy the dreams of your childhood. Guess what it cost only Rs 30, which looked so meagre considering our real incomes these days. Anyhow I gleefully bought it, only to realize it was just as horrible as my ‘heirloom hero pen.’ Though I never told this to my dad who was still bothered about my materialistic cravings.

A simple Google search tells me childhood pen is the 'vintage Hero 443.' Despite all this I have to say that my ‘hero’ pen never failed on me, and I think it still is lying around at home. I intend to pass it on to my kids as it is an ‘heirloom’ now and also for the fun of seeing they get tortured with my ‘hero.’

Click click click!

Click click click!

Photographing alongside a plane is one of the saddest sight I have witnessed. I have not been able to reason out why does it make me feel sad. First it makes me irritated and then comes the bout of sadness.

Well to be honest nowadays any photographs are sad. There is a brick smile which is almost prickly. I take pictures primarily for Instagram and at the instances I am truly, ecstatically happy I just forget to click the moments. I am almost positive that is the case with most of us.

 A flood of photos never really charms you. But that one picture with ugly hats on a swing amma pushing us, the one where appachan is tightly holding onto us on a trek and the worst picture yet the best of all is Sara and me in those unkempt clothes on our old Chetak scooter, are memories.

Probably years and years later these floods of candids, insta pics, DPs, selfies, carfies might find value. I doubt…. I guess it is the lightning speed at which we chuck one over the other as our favorite, the one where our face angles are the best, the colors are best filtered. It is the inevitable of this fast-moving world.

Recently, I guess when you reach your late 20s is when one feels the need for a reboot button. What do you think one could do then with these multitude of pictures from the past? I do not want any of my past than these three pictures, when I hit my reboot button. Alas! One cannot restart and reboot in life.

So then it frustrates me even more, it is this huge baggage I’ve to carry along. When I die, I wish those to be buried with me. I want it to rot with me; does all this make sense to anyone? Strangely it does to me. Fake smiles, fake happiness, pretty vistas, I don’t think I am up for it.

'Aadam & Havva'

'AADAM & HAVVA'

"ദൈവം അങ്ങനെ ആദത്തെയും ഹവ്വയേയും ഏദൻ തോട്ടത്തിലാക്കി. ഓ! ഏദൻ തോട്ടം എന്നു പറഞ്ഞാ ഇത്രയും നല്ലൊരു തോട്ടം. അവിടെ ഇല്ലാത്ത പഴങ്ങൾ ഇല്ല; ആപ്പിൾ, കൈതച്ചക്ക, ചക്ക, മാങ്ങ, തേങ്ങ, പേരക്ക, ഓറഞ്ച്, സപ്പോട്ട, ചാമ്പക്ക, ളൂവിക്ക, കശുമാങ്ങ, അങ്ങനെ. പിന്നെ പൂക്കളോ, അത് പറയണോ റോസ്, ലില്ലി, താമര, മുല്ലപ്പൂ, ചെമ്പരത്തി, ജമന്തി, ഡാലിയ,... “

“അമ്മാമ്മേ എന്നിട്ടു കഥ ബാക്കി പറ. ഞങ്ങൾക്ക് ഏദൻ തോട്ടം ഒക്കെ അറിയാം."

My sister, Sara would jut in at the hundredth rerun of the story of Adam and Eve. Well Ammama (my grandmother) focused on the fruits, vegetables, flowers, trees and colors of Eden, like any good story teller would. She knew it was not the story that mattered but how it panned out. And I think that is what makes me respect her immensely, to this day.

I have always been her ‘കള്ളൻദൂഷി (kallandhooshi).’ To this day no one has ever been to explain what that word means. And neither did it occur to me to ask her what it meant. But it gives me all the warmth in the world when I hear that word. Well, to all, their grandmothers are the epitome of love. My grandmother is, for me as well but not at all in the traditional way of a grandparent. Truth be told, ammama was never the mollycoddling type. And unlike all grandmothers I know of, she was a terrible cook. She has to her credit the most abominable dish I have ever known – ‘pappada varutha morris’ (I cannot go into explain what it is but imagine having beef and papadam in the same dish together)- it was one of her own inventions and she was so unapologetically giggly about it. She was also not an agile woman as most grandmothers are remembered in their youths. But she taught me in her ways that a woman need not be any of that to be a woman. I think that is where I started taking off.

She also taught Sara and me how to play Rummy and insisted on playing it a zillion times even when she lost every single time. I soon lost interest in the game, because she stopped being a match for me. Still she never tired out.

Ammama grew up in a really wealthy family, the only sister to 10 brothers. She was torn off her easy life and all the wealth post her marriage, but it never shook her. She was forced to return to her parents’ house a few years after her marriage. After her parents’ death she moved on to live alone in a rented house with her kids, lest she and her kids become a burden on her brothers. I have heard those were very difficult times. She would find it difficult to provide for her kids. But my amma (mother) always remember, even in those days ammama never lost her zest for life. And for all the years I have known her she had that zeal for life and was never ready to give up.

Now all this nostalgia might give the impression that ammama and me had the sweetest of relationships. Not in the conventional sense of a grandparent-grandkid any way. We fought incessantly, be mad at each other Most of my teenage years were like that, and now I know it is because both of us were obstinate in our ways. Something which she rubbed off as her legacy. But I do have such fond memories of her telling me a lot of stories – but then the stories weren’t normal. She has told me so many real-life stories of untimely deaths – weirdly for a grandma. I now realize why, because she was terrified of the concept of that finality. 'Ammama, but it was still inappropriate to tell a 10-year-old of those stories!'

Ammama never gave up hope in her life. It showed in the way she would so passionately sit and unknot yarn, I miss her so much when I have to do that myself nowadays. It even showed in the way she taught me Math- yes she taught me Math all my school days. She was not the smartest cookie, but was a ‘never giving up’ cookie. I remember this one day we were doing some Math HW (we were comrades in that) and we could not solve a sum the whole evening and I guess it gnawed at her mind. She woke me up in the middle of the night saying “Annae, I figured out how to solve it.” Though I was too sleepy to follow her, years later I understand she was always incessant about not losing hope. As a woman and a mother, she has gone through some really difficult phase in life, but I have never heard her complain ‘why me?’.

Her infectious laugh, with her shaking and becoming teary from it, is such a fond memory I have of her. She was so full of sarcasm (glee!) and had an unyielding spirit. Her favorite story is one where she took the bus home from her college hostel though her parents told her not to (they were rich you see, so had sent to pick her up). Apparently when she got home she got a good scolding. But each time she told that story, her eyes shined and she could not stop giggling. So I can imagine how nonchalantly she would have taken all that yelling. Sometimes I see bits of her in Sara, who giggles through all my dad’s ticking off.

When she passed away amma found in her crisply starched, neatly folded cotton sarees, a letter and a photo of her and me I had sent her once. That was ammama’s way of fondling me and telling me how much she loved me.

So, I do not have memories of a typical grandma. But I remember a strong woman who told me oft to take life lightly.