July, as always, seems to be a month of both celebration and contemplation. Perhaps the two go hand in hand, the one inevitably giving rise to the other. Pausing to mark another personal landmark is often just what's needed for reflection about life's larger realities. 

And so today, my thoughts turn to a brother and a sister, separated by time and distance, but united by illness and age. While my grand-mother deals with her latest ailment with characteristic fortitude, her brother lies in Intensive Care in another corner of the world. I will always remember Baby Appacha (a name that encapsulates all of human existence- from infancy to old age) as an uncomplicated man. Simple, quiet and contented. These are qualities I have always admired in him and others of his generation. I have strived to be all of these things myself with varying, but ultimately disappointing, degrees of success. 

It is almost impossible to fully explain the intangible impact any one individual has on your life. And so the mind often picks out one or two snapshots that serve as pegs to hang your memory of them off. I will never forget the time Appacha, having heard of my now-legendary love of jackfruit, arranged to have one delivered to the house just for me. He then proceeded to meticulously splice it and place those yellow-honey pods onto a plate, each one gleaming in the mid-day sun. I remember sitting alongside him, in near-total silence, working our way through them and feeling completely and utterly happy. I suppose when you are twelve, it doesn't take a lot to feel that way. But when you look back at memories like those as an adult, you marvel both at how special they are, and how difficult those feelings are to recreate. 

And then there was the time when I was a lot older (but still obsessed with jackfruit- some things never change) that he heard I was in another part of Kerala and was not able to travel to meet him. While most older relatives would be at least mildly offended if you were to leave without paying them a visit, Appacha got on a bus and travelled nearly two hours to see me instead. In a bag, there were some snacks for me from the shop he owned, things he knew I enjoyed. He spent an afternoon with me and my aunt and uncle before needing to head home. Just before he left, I remember him inviting me to go back with him and I did my best to politely refuse, saying I was leaving the next day. He smiled a kind smile by way of acknowledgement, and then walked away. That will be my enduring memory of him; this kind, contented man, shuffling off into the evening sun. 

There are many people, and Appacha is top of that list, whose generosity I will never be able to directly reciprocate. A part of me knows this is how things are, and that the gifts of kindness we receive are often only fully repaid when we give to others instead. But when I think of Baby Appacha, in the twilight of his life, it makes me sad that I was never able to make him as feel as happy, or special, as he made me feel. In the ledger of life, I will forever be his debtor.