The process of losing a grandparent is a strange and mystifying experience. On the one hand you grow up with the inevitability of their passing; and yet, when the time finally approaches, it leaves you reeling. 

It is a unique bond, the one between a child and a grandparent. Time and circumstances can sometimes combine to make it a very special relationship, one in which - oddly, given the invariable age difference- you are in a sort of kinship with each other. Perhaps the one-generation gap affords some unexpected common ground; or maybe it is to do with the fact that if life is a circle, then children and their grandparents both exist on the same minor arc: one at the start of their journey, the other approaching the end. This was brought home to me in poignant fashion every July for the past several years, when Ammachy and I would cut the same cake for birthdays that were three days apart. 

Ammachy's was certainly a life well lived. Uprooted from happy, familiar surroundings in Kerala and arriving in the alien land of Singapore, bringing up five children in the post-war years while barely out of her teens herself, then moving to England and starting up all over again, battling and overcoming the odds, caring for her beloved ‘pappa' after he was struck down by a stroke; this is the sort of thing some of us in my generation read about in books or see in films, with no awareness that such everyday heroes are in our own families. We walk around with the confidence of youth, forgetting that we stand on the shoulders of giants. 

While her tough life made her tough, her heart was forever seeking out opportunities to show kindness. This kindness and generosity of spirit characterised her 88 years, and there are countless stories of how she has touched the lives of complete strangers, many of whom are now part of our extended family.

In my own life, I have been a constant beneficiary of this kindness. Although I was born on the other side of the world, Ammachy nevertheless features in some of my earliest memories. There we were, my cousin and I, conspiring to wreak some fresh havoc in her living room or back garden, an exercise that invariably ended up with one of us getting hurt and both of us re-acquainting ourselves with the wooden spoon. As I grew older, I was fortunate to be able to spend more time with her, first by way of occasional summer visits (during which I occupied the famous box room), and then eventually moving to within a few minutes' drive away. 

Sometimes when she had not seen or heard from me for a few days, she would call on the phone and the conversation would almost always begin with her asking "nee evide aada, ninte annakum onnum illalo." (Where have you been, I haven’t heard from you in a while.) I would proceed to offer up some feeble excuse for not visiting her and she would listen patiently, eventually saying "Sherri. Njan orthu nee enne marannu poyi ennu" (Ok. I thought you forgot about me) 

In recent months, with Ammachy increasingly home-bound, I had become used to walking in to her always-warm house, and seeing the top of her head sticking out above her chair as she sat watching the tv or reading a book. As soon as she saw me, she would stop whatever she was doing and smile. She would ask me how I was, and the next question was usually "have you eaten?" at which point I would always say no, even if I had eaten just a short while ago. Anyone who has tasted Ammachy’s chicken will understand.

We would then talk about her health, the latest developments in Kerala politics, and the private lives of the birds she had been watching through her window. But the overriding themes were what she considered the two most important things in life: faith and family. For as long as I live, I will treasure these conversations and the wisdom she imparted through them. 

Ammachy’s was an all-encompassing love; she cared as much for people’s emotional and spiritual well-being as for their physical. In between spoonfuls of chicken, she would ask if I was praying and reading my Bible, and give me advice on how to be strong when dealing with difficult situations. Even now, if she could, she would be telling me to keep it together. But this was what made Ammachy the special person she was- her genuine love and selfless concern for everyone she came into contact with, even her consultant at the hospital. 

Now, as she lies in a side room of West Middlesex hospital, on the verge of departing to a place to which I don’t have my own key and where I can no longer visit anytime I want, I find myself replaying some of these memories over and over again in my head as a defence against the waves of sadness. 

I will sorely miss Ammachy but I believe that if there is a heaven she will be there, with a full head of hair and a twinkle in her eye. And I will live the rest of my days in the hope that one day I will be able to go there too, and watch as she stops doing whatever she was doing and smiles at me. And when she asks “Where were you; I thought you forgot me?” I will finally be able to say - Never, Ammachy. I never forgot you.

Update: Ammachy breathed her last on Monday 8th Feb at 10:15 am.

Conversations with a stranger

Fear 

They say there is nothing to fear but fear itself, but of course this is not true. There are many things in life to be fearful of. I have been fearful of most of them for as long as I can remember and increasingly I am finding more things to add to the list. I cannot remember the last time I went a whole night without at least one little shiver going down my spine; sometimes in my dreams, and sometimes when I was still lying awake waiting for the brief respite that sleep brings. 

Fear begins by attaching itself to a specific thing, but so often it has a way of uncoupling itself from the thing and becoming a separate entity, orbiting like a satellite around the blurred edges your consciousness. It does not help that being seen as a Coward is to risk being an outcast by a society that glorifies the Fearless and the Brave. 

There is an evolutionary element to Fear, and it can sometimes save your life. But when does it stop being useful and start being debilitating? 
I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid.
I smiled at the hint of a joke, but her face was as impassive as ever. 

Family 

I often think of family as a carpet, she said. 
What do you mean?, I asked. 

When a carpet is new, it feels soft and comfortable. You grow up with the warmth and security of it; it is a protection against the inevitable bumps and scratches that life throws at you along the way. You imagine it will always remain this way. 

In time, though, parts of the carpet feel like they’re being trampled on. It starts to fray at the seams; little holes start appearing in the fabric. It is no longer as soft as it used to be, instead it becomes slippery and a false step here or there could mean you lose your footing. You try and patch things together but you can still see where the tear was. 

Eventually, things fall apart completely under the weight of obligation, but still the carpet needs to stick together. And so things get brushed under it, rugs get thrown over it. Appearances are maintained, because the carpet cannot be changed. But, underneath, things continue to fray until finally nothing remains except a faint pattern or a vague memory. 

Is this why they say you always hurt the ones who love you most? 
Perhaps. 
But you are also obliged to love the ones who hurt you the most.

Friendship 

Why is friendship so precious, I asked? 
Because there is no obligation. 
You mean like with families? 
Perhaps. 

There is also no expectation. When nothing is expected, everything is unexpected and that is the beauty of friendship. It is like watering a plant thinking it will produce only leaves but suddenly one morning you go outside and it is covered in beautiful flowers. 

Or like talking to a bird never expecting it to say anything back and then suddenly it squawks back it’s name at you? I asked. 

Family is like a legally binding contract, but friendship is a gentleman’s agreement. You can come to a mutual agreement when you want to call time on a friendship but you can’t wake up one morning and decide you’re not going to be a father anymore. Friendships endure because it is assumed they have an expiry date, while family ties often unravel precisely because they’re expected to last forever. Forever is sometimes a long time. 

Sadness 

Sadness at the loss of a toy is a temporary, fleeting sadness. Children are able to overcome sadness in ways that adults are never quite able to. The Sadness of a broken relationship or a lingering regret; the sort of sadness that draws from a bottomless pool of sorrow- this is Adult Sadness. 

It seeps in, invisible at first, like moisture in a poorly ventilated room, but it is only a matter of time before the once-pristine walls of your early childhood are covered in melancholic mildew. And though it enters through many different places, it always seem to find its way to your eyes. 

Your eyes are where Sadness goes to look out at the world from. 

Pondering over Lego

I have often thought that words are like lego bricks. Use them well, and you can make tons of cool stuff. 

Interesting fact 1: Six eight-stud lego bricks can apparently be combined in 915,103,765 different ways. The possibilities are almost endless. 

Interesting fact 2: There are now so many pieces of lego in the world that if they were divided up amongst every person on the planet, we’d each have 86 pieces. 

Tomorrow, chances are we’ll have even more. In much the same way, we’re each given an ever-increasing set of words to play with. Any time we like, we can open up this little box that we carry around in our heads, and start clicking the little pieces into place. We might use them in different ways, languages, styles or forms, but the ‘universal system’ which ensures that every lego brick ever made will lock with another is, in some ways, just as true for our words. 

Just like lego, words also have the power to both inspire and hurt. Anyone who has stepped on a stray piece and howled like a wounded hyena (maybe that’s just me) will recognise the parallel. A casual word tossed around without much thought always somehow causes more pain than you might expect. 

A final thought: The name LEGO is made from the first two letters of the Danish words LEG GODT, meaning 'play well'. A pretty good mantra for these troubled times. So, what are you going to make?