ARUN's Message
Oh, our dearest Ammumma
What can we write – what can we produce –
for the woman who wants nothing?
Over the years, this question has
taken different forms,
namely ‘What should we buy for Ammumma’s birthday?’
or ‘What should we buy Ammumma for Onam?’
And the answer, more often than not,
has been ‘Buy her a mundu.’ So, at
least a couple times, I bought her a mundu.
Now, most mundus look the same
to me – they are white with a couple
stripes at the edge. So I got a little
tired of giving her mundus. And anyways,
I’m sure that over the decades,
Ammumma has received hundreds
of mundus with stripes on them (although, to
be honest, she seemed to remember which
ones were from me, or maybe she knew that
she could point to any mundu in the Godrej
and say it was from me, and
I would nod and say, ‘Aah, yes, of course.
That’s the one.’).
There have been other ideas of
what to give Ammumma.
Cuckoo once bought her a pair of spectacles
with magnifying lenses in them, rather than regular lenses. I thought that was an inspired idea, although I’m not really sure whether Ammumma ever used them. A couple times someone said she could use chappals. Is it appropriate to give your grandmother chappals, or is that kind of strange? I think about that more often than I probably should.
Really, there seems to be nothing
one can give her except peace of
mind, and that’s not really possible, is it?
Ammumma seems to have accepted the
burden of the world – her world –
upon those fragile shoulders, at a very
young age. When she was young,
she struggled to get by, and to get her
children by. She struggled so that
they wouldn't have to, and so we wouldn't
have to.Now that she’s older and
they’re older, she still worries about them,
in different ways.
Often, her concern is contagious.
Once, I came home from Bangalore, and
I took an auto rickshaw from the bus stop.
The driver demanded 20 rupees, which
was crazy – it wasn’t any more
than a 7 or 8 rupee fare – so I offered
him five. He was so insulted that gave
me back the 5 rupees and drove away.
I proudly told Ammumma the story,
but she got really worried: What if he
comes back with his friends? That night,
I started thinking: What if she’s right?
Sometimes, I think of Ammumma and Muthacchan –
how he gave us mints when we were little –
light pink and green and yellow mints.
When I was a little older, he always
bought puran boli from the store,
because he knew I liked it.
I stayed with them the month
before he died, and every day, Ammumma
would make him oats. He told her to
make extra oats, so she did, and every
evening, he and I would each drink
a hot cup of oats. But my favorite thing
was when Ammumma brought him kanyi.
There was a scratched enamel bowl,and a
spoon made of a leaf.
I thought it was fantastic that a spoon could be
made of a leaf. I suppose Muthacchan
would’ve been 95 today. I miss him.
When we’ve run out of ideas of what to give,
sometimes the best we can do is take.
The last time I was in India was January of 2002.
Ammumma was only 86 then.
Before that visit, and after,
our communication has been by phone,
with me in New York and Ammumma in Kerala.
I ask her how she’s doing and she
says the time has come.
Vaiyya inikye, monu. I’m tired, my son. But one
day that January, it was time for breakfast,
and we were having puttu and kadala.
Before I could mix it myself, she asked me
if I wanted her to mix it. Or maybe
I asked her, jokingly, if she would mix it,
knowing just like everyone else in the room
that day that it was a silly thing for a 30
year old to ask an 86 year old.
But she took the plate in her hands and with
Her frail hand she started mashing.
It took her a while, but when she was
done, she handed the plate back to me,
and I started eating – and it was
good.
Happy 90th Birthday, Ammumma.
Love,
Arun
By ARUN VENUGOPAL
DEVI's Message
"When I wanted to write my thoughts about Amma,
I was too choked with emotions.
It is very hard for me to articulate 40 years of life,
but I will try.
when I see all these great articles about Amma,
I am not surprised at all. For me, Amma is far
elevated to be described using a few words.
Soon after our marriage, when he was going
back to work, leaving me with the in-laws,
I was very emotional, when Amma said
" Enthinaa Devi Vishamikkanae, ngangalellaam illaey ivde"..
Why are you disturbed, Devi, aren't we all here for you?.
From that morning, I felt right at home and never felt
otherwise again. I found my mother.
Somehow we had the same wave length and
I think She understands me more than anynone else.
When she talked about her days of mistreatment
from her mother-in-law, I knew how lucky I was.
Even her own mother was not kind to her,
which quite surprised me.
In the beginning, I wa apalled by the burdens
of house work she used to do and I tried to
pitch in whatever I could. She never asked me
to do this or that, but always guided me through
the complexities of family life. I remember when
she came to Bangalore to help us when Lalu was born,
I learned so much from Amma about child rearing.
Then we went abroad. She was so kind and loving
when we visited home. The family had expanded,
everyone got married, had children, etc. etc.
When Achan and Amma came to Houston,
she was still the same old Amma, never overjoyed
with anything, so simple in dressing and habits.
If we all can learn to live our lives that simple way,
we don't have to worry about anything.
She is the personification of simple life.
She had talked about Appu Oppa always
with such high esteem. Amma treated my sisters
and other family members with love and regards.
What else can I say? I wish my children had
more opportunities to learn from their Ammumma,
especially when they were young. That was a great loss.
But they all love her very much. Next week, we are
coming home to celebrate Amma's 'Navathi',
to touch her feet and get her blessings.
Saashtaanga Pranaamangal,
With Love and Respect,
Devi
By DEVI MENON
MEERA'S MESSAGE
First impressions:
When Arun first told me about his grandmother, I created my own picture. I don’t know why, but I imagined her faded, white-haired, a quiet retiring woman, diminished by her years. When I finally met her, only the part about the white hair was right. She was a vital presence who could not be ignored. Sprightly.Fiercly intelligent. I loved watching her walk up and down the path beside her sons’ houses, arms swinging, back straight. She was a sentry, a guardian, out on her rounds, still making sure all her brood were alright, that they were safe, that everyone was doing okay.
Ammumma and Anokha:
There is a term in Malayalam which I love, called “Kuttiye kaanikya”, which literally means “ showing the child”.
Arun and I came in 2001, bringing Anokha. It was her turn to bebrought forward and have the light of family shone upon her. She was young still, not fully aware of people and places. Then I came alone for Kala’s wedding and one morning Ammumma came to visit. She sat down with dad, Anokha and me on the back porch. I remember, thinking of all the babies Ammumma had seen. Her own. Her nieces and nephews. Then grandchildren. And now, her great-grandchildren. Her years were hard to imagine, like accounting for the circumference of the globe or the miles to the sun. The mind balks. Rebels. Then gives up. How fortunate she was. And how lucky all these children were to be able to grow up with her watching.
Dad wanted a picture. He managed to get Anokha to move, to sit beside her. She looked up at Ammumma, kind of smiled.
Anokha had seen her before, but for me that was the moment. The generations had finally met.
August 23 – 28th, 2005
Ammumma talks about the family land, “The GDC took it,” she says. “We got nothing”. Tell your mother to be careful and not lease it out. They’ll take it all.”
She asked about Arun. “Does he have a job? Is he making money? She hasn’t seen him in so long,” she says.
She tells me about Kaashi, about her trip North with Satish Kochachan. How exhausted she was, how she wanted to see everything, go everywhere.
Listening to her, I wish I could bottle her memories, or paste them in some album. I wish I could get her to talk more, spend more time with her.
