Parishkari Ammachi (Fashionista Grandmother)
by Liji Varghese
I was on my way to love when the news of my grandmother’s death caught up with me. It was not like I was warned of it by nightmares or tumultuous weather. I had gone to sleep dreaming of a beautiful day ahead. Ammachi (grandma) had been ill and bed ridden for a year and a half. In the last days, she had Alzheimer’s too. She lost memories of her adulthood, of marriage, her husband and their children. All she could think of were her childhood memories in Mallappally, the bustling town where she grew up. She had forgotten Vechoochira, the village her husband had migrated to with his family, for a better, more prosperous life. The acres of land they acquired for farming were next to a forest. The nearby town was kilometres away.
Perhaps it was well that ammachi forgot this phase of her life. She had not wanted to move. In earlier days, when we were children, she used to narrate stories of her childhood: how her father used to buy her necklaces and new frocks from the shops, how she was the most beautiful and the best dressed child in her community. She was certainly the most beautiful and the best dressed ammachi we had ever seen. “Oh, Ammachi oru parishkaari allaayirunno?” (Oh, you were a fashionista?) we would taunt her. “Athedi Aayirunnu” ( yes, I was), she would respond with her toothless grin. Perhaps it was well that ammachi could only think of happy times in her last days.
She left us without any warning. She had been steady for a while and we had stopped fearing that we would lose her soon. “Perfect timing”, I thought to myself. And, “perfect timing”, in my mind, had always been an attribute of God. Like that one passenger who gets saved from the airplane crash because she was 5 minutes late. Or, like Mini chechi’s achen. Achen had a chronic heart problem since he was young. At first, doctors thought he wouldn’t survive long. Then they said “maximum 35 years”, he won’t live beyond that. But he lived till 53. The medical science thought him a miracle. After both his children graduated and his elder son finished his Medical degree and got job as a doctor in a nearby hospital, a week after that, achen passed away. Mini chechi didn’t have a job. How would she have raised a family without achen’s salary? They say God doesn’t make mistakes. So I thought God was talking to me. I had been planning to meet Joe on Monday. I was to leave for Hyderabad on Saturday, but this news hit me in the morning. Perhaps it was a sign from God that I should listen to my parents and get married in the traditional way rather than fight to have it my way.
“She was a woman of great virtue and grace. After appachen (grandfather) passed away, she held her family together with her sensitive and pious habits”. That was Rev. Varghese Mathew, my father, ammachi’s only son in law eulogizing her at the funeral. He was the undisputed spokesperson for the family in every formal occasion. They took to each other. The family saw a respected man of good behaviour and gentlemanly characteristics. The son in law saw a respected family with good connections. Together, they held the family’s name, honour and dignity in place. Except for the daughter / the wife, my mother. Mom came from a landed, well educated family. On the other hand, Papa was the only educated member of his family and they didn’t own any land. Mom saw a huge difference between the two families – their culture, their expectations of her, the freedom she was allowed. She didn’t gel as well into her married family as papa fit into his.
“Amma was a happy and contented soul”, the eulogy was going on. I wanted to raise my hands and ask a few questions. “Does lack of choice constitute a moral decision?” What does it mean to say ‘Free Will’ is the cornerstone of the Bible? Did ammachi miss making love? Forget that. What about having a conversation with a partner? Did anyone ever care about these?
Ammachi became a widow at a very young age. She was barely 40 when appachan (grandpa) passed away. Before that, for two years, appachan was bedridden after a stroke. Ammachi looked after him diligently. The reward for that diligence was a life of loneliness and quiet – surrounded by children and grandchildren and loud noise. I asked my mom if nobody ever asked ammachi about getting married again. She laughed. “Who was to marry her off? Who would have married her?” mom asked. The problem about arranged marriages is that it works like a market. The younger, the more beautiful, the wealthier, the more innocent you are, the easier it is to find a companion. Parents marry their children off. What about parents who are widowed with adult children? Who will marry them off?
After the funeral, we stayed back the night - to grieve and remember. All of us were there – all the children and the grandchildren– except my brother. He couldn’t manage leave on such short notice. We got together in ammachi’s room in the night and shared our favourite memories of her. I couldn’t reconcile with the fact that she is gone. Her room stood there – her drawer, jewelry box, bed – all intact, except for that fragile body at the window looking through as if waiting for someone to come through. Staring into the distance longingly.
Ammachi got married at 17. She had 5 grown up children by the time appachan died. Looking from the outside, ammachi had nothing to complain about. Her children were well settled and her daughters in law looked after her well. But I can’t erase the image of her standing at the window. That’s how she spent most of her time. Ammini ammachi’s (our neighbour) house is on that side of the window. Ammachi can see and hear through her window what is happening there. Sometimes she would pick up news about that household from her window. We would make fun of her ‘detective’ work. Sometimes she would go and sit in the sit out clad in her spotless, pristine white dress – looking the embodiment of grace that she was.
“She understood the value of education”, Valiya (big) Uncle, her eldest son said. When appachan passed away, only Valiya uncle had finished college and was able to work. My mom is the second. She was in college and the younger 3 uncles had not finished school. They shifted to a rented house in the nearest town so that they could attend schools and colleges without difficulty. Ammachi took the initiative for all this and made sure that her family followed suit without difficulty. She made sure that all her children had a College degree and completed their education.
“She had an easy life, she didn’t have to work hard”, said Thampy uncle, the youngest. Apparently, ammachi had two servants while they were growing up. One looked after the household work and the other, outside work. She was looked after well by appachan. Ammachi would still wake up dreaming of appachen. She would tell us all about it in the morning. Maybe they are together now – again, after so many years.
There was a black Bible on Ammachi’s bed, next to her pillow. There was a white envelope in it. Inside the envelope, we found 3 photographs of ammachi. All of them were taken when ammachi went to visit Thampi Uncle in his official residence in Delhi. She was not wearing her customary white mundu and chatta. Thampi Uncle’s wife had got her dressed in colourful churidhars and had her hair cropped. She did indeed look like a fashionista.
Next day morning, as we were leaving, my mind was full of Joe. What will I tell him? It seems evident to me now that our union wouldn’t last long. We were from different religions and caste. “Love” might see us come together. But God forbid, if something goes wrong, a serious disease, or death happens, will our love be enough then? Is our love as strong?