Remembering my Grandfather..

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Because I was the last-born in my family, I was not lucky to know my Grandfather closely or get pampered by him. Yet, my memories about my paternal Grandfather are vivid. I remember him as a very tall, slender man who appeared quite healthy and elegant and seldom worn a shirt. The usual occasions when he did wear a shirt was when he went to church or for a long journey. He stood very straight and wore a simple “Mundu” and shawl always. He had a walking stick in his hand when he walked, but his walking was majestic. His hands had tremor since he had Parkinson’s disease. In those days, most people were ignorant of Parkinson’s disease. I had heard people say that he probably would have killed a cat and that the tremors were the result of the curse for killing a cat.

He could eat himself, but needed somebody to hold his drink for him. I seldom saw him when I was a small kid. He stayed with his youngest son’s family in the Village. We lived in the city far away. But I remember him calling me “Vellakka kanni” (very small tender coconut eye) since my eyes were very big. He chewed betel leaves and usually had a small packet of betel leaves and other chewing stuff wrapped in a plantain leaf and all again wrapped in an old Newspaper. There was also a small pocket knife inside the wrap. He used it to scrape off the outside of the “Areca nut” and also to cut it into small pieces. Occasionally, he allowed me to play with his pocket knife. He smelled of betel leaf. So I didn’t like his hugs & kisses. He was kind of stranger to me, since he stayed with us only once in a blue moon for at the most a month in all the ten years I was around. He liked to stay with us, but he didn’t know anybody to talk with in this town and missed the village life. Strangers, who walked in the road in front of our house, were too busy to stop and talk to an old man with a friendly face, standing in front of the gate. He had nothing else to do other than sleep or nap in between the meals. He felt lonely, so he liked to go back to the village, even if he was very fond of my father.

The restrictions on spitting anywhere at his convenience, a requirement of wearing shirt all the time, lack of a single childhood friend to converse…..might have been the reasons he didn’t like to stay with us more frequently.

His wife (my grandmother) had died when she was in her 40’s. They had three kids, two boys and one girl, my father the eldest. My Grandfather might be in late 40’s at that time.

When Grandfather visited us, my mother took care of him well with respect and love, but still he missed the social life in the village where he grew up. He was very sharp in observing things. He was very proud of my father. He believed in his capabilities. He called his son “my Bank” since he knew he is rich enough to take care of everybody’s needs.

I remember occasional, joyful trips in a rented ‘special’ car to the village, whenever my father got a telephone call from his brother saying “father’s condition is serious, come to see him before he goes”. For me, it was a pleasure trip. I don’t have to go to school that day. No homework, no Tuition, no chores of any kind at home…  I liked those car rides. I could see the places and people I would have never known otherwise. I was allowed to listen to the grown-ups’ talk inside the car. Nobody could ask me to go away, as they usually did at home, once they started talking about serious matters kids shouldn’t be listening. I could see all my cousins, (especially my age group to play with) living in the village even though I didn’t know any of them that close.

When we reach there usually there will be a small crowd of people in my father’s brother’s house. They are the people waiting to witness the last minutes of the Grandfather. Grandfather will be lying in his bed, under a blanket, with his eyes closed. His walking stick would be near his bed as if his best companion. I would look intensely at his stomach to see whether there is any movement because that’s the only thing I knew about death… when you are dead nothing in your body moves….everything will stay standstill.

My father would shake him a little and call him “Appa”.

Then Grandfather would wake up as if from a deep sleep.

He would say, “oh, you came!”

Then he would say with a cunning smile, “Not this time!”

I don’t know whether the crowd gathered there was disappointed by his words. Eventually, they would disperse one by one. I would run to the bank of the “Pamba” river behind the house to play with my friends. I enjoyed every minute of it. I was treated superior, modern and more fashionable than any one of them by all my cousins because I was living in a famous faraway developed town. None of them had seen the sea or beach. They seldom see cars, buses or Lorries. The road in that village was not that great either. There were very few bicycles on those muddy roads.

After spending few hours, on the same day, we would go back home. The return trip in the car was equally pleasant, but I would be sad on my way back since I knew it was the ending of a good time.

Everything has to end sometime, good or bad!

On the way back home, my mother would pretend to be angry because of the sudden trip and all the daily chores piled up for her at home. My father would be quiet all the way back home. He would be feeling happy inside, I thought. I am sure now that he knew at the bottom of his Heart, that the whole episode was a conspiracy created by my Grandfather whenever he felt like to see his elder son. But my father never mentioned this. Now I am pretty sure that my mother was smart enough to understand that this was a conspiracy.

One time when Grandfather came for a few weeks stay, I remember something very special about my sister-in-law. Grandfather needed assistance to drink anything as usual. Somebody had to hold the glass for him. He still could walk slowly all by himself with the help of his walking stick.  One day before lunch he was sitting in his room on his bed after his usual nap.

He called, “Mole”.

It could be addressed to any female in that house, my sister-in-law or my mother or I who was sitting in the corridor reading a book. I heard it, but as a teenager, just ignored it as if I didn’t hear it. I was very sure that he might be calling for a drink. My sister-in-law was in the kitchen farther away from him. She was very busy preparing lunch for everybody. With all the commotion going on in the Kitchen, she heard it and left everything and came in a hurry to the Grandfather. She asked him what he wanted. When he asked for the drink, she told him what drink was available buttermilk, coffee, Tea or “kanjivellam”. He chose what he liked and she brought it to him with the usual pleasant face. She held the glass for him and he drank comfortably. I stopped reading. I noticed everything. I was wondering about that love between these two people. My Grandfather is not a blood relation to my sister-in-law. She has not seen him in her childhood. She has not well-acquainted with him at all. She knew him only after she got married to this family. She saw him lesser than me. I felt ashamed of myself. I am his grandchild and I simply ignored his call because I guessed some work was involved.

I went to the Kitchen. My sister-in-law had resumed her lunch preparation as if nothing happened. I stood near her and looked at her. Her face is pleasant as usual.

“Let me ask you something. You are not related to grandfather, but I am. He called and I just ignored. But you, you showed so much enthusiasm & went to him and did what he asked so lovingly! How can you do that? “, I asked her.

Her reply was a laugh. I insisted that I wanted an answer for my question.

“It is my Grandfather and my own. I am his grand-daughter. You have to tell me how can you love somebody else’s grandfather as your own and show so much love and caring?”

Then she told me.

“I grew up with my grandparents and they were a part of my growing up. Now they are not in this world any more. So I see them in your grandfather.”

After this I tried to love my grandfather more and stopped ignoring his calls.

In my second year of Engineering, I remember Grandfather asking me how my studies are. When he knew that my branch is Electrical Engineering and I am in second year,

“So now you would have learned at least to climb up an Electrical post, right?” Grandfather teased me. He was very witty and sharp in his conversations just like my father. But he spoke less and most of the time he liked to be a good listener.

In 1970’s my father survived two heart attacks. My mother became so vigilant about his diet & bad habit of smoking. She usually caught him red-handed when he tried to smoke secretly. There were always fights between them about cigarette smoking. She made sure to give him fat-free milk. She tried to remove fat from all his diet to control his cholesterol.

Then one day we got a phone call as usual about Grand-father being serious. We all went in a car and I could see my father sitting in the front seat wiping tears from his eyes with his shawl all throughout the way. I am not a small kid any more. I am in my twenties. I was in College at that time and it was holiday times.

When we reached there, as usual a crowd had gathered near the house. Grandfather was in the bed. My father went near the bed and looked at him for a few seconds. Then he sat on the bed. He moved the blanket farther down from Grandfather’s body.

Grandfather opened his eyes. He looked tired and weak. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lit up seeing his “bank”.

My father put his hands on his forehead, and then he said.

“Appa, I will pray for you. I will ask God to take you first. So that you will not be hurt seeing your son gone before you. You should also pray for that.”

Tears were flowing down his cheeks. Grandfather’s eyes were also filled with tears. They cried quietly.

I couldn’t stand there anymore. So I walked to the back of the house. “Pamba” river was flowing gently as usual. But I didn’t play with my friends that day. I was very sad.

I had never seen them giving each other hugs or kisses. But today I had witnessed the great love between a father and a son. I had heard from my mother that the biggest sorrow a person feels is when a child dies. I often wondered about that all my life.

As usual, we spent some time there and then we left. Everybody was gloomy on our way back home.

This time also Grandfather survived. Few more years passed by.

Even though my father earnestly prayed to God for his father’s death to happen before his death, my father died in 1978. My Grandfather had to witness his son’s funeral. There was nobody to console him for his loss. His bank has gone forever!

Grandfather became a different person. He was very quiet. Nothing interested him anymore. Thus Grandfather lived one and a half years more.

Grandfather was young when his wife died. I wonder now why he didn’t re-marry. At that time a second marriage was not a taboo for men at least. Now I feel sorry and great compassion for him thinking he never had anybody to confide his feelings to or to show special affection once his wife had gone and his children were all grown up and had their own families. When I was young I never thought this way about him. May be I never had the wisdom to see through him.

What a life!

May be there were other reasons for him, not to re-marry.

My mother had told me that Grandmother was a smart lady and very capable. Grandfather loved her very much. When she was kind of paralyzed one side (probably due to a heart attack), Grandfather brought the best “Vaidyan” available from some very faraway place to look at her and made all the native medicines for her at home as per the request of the “Vaidyan”. May be she had another heart attack, thus all the medicines had failed. May be Grandfather loved her so much he never wanted to replace her with another woman.

May be because by the time she died all the kids were married and had kids of their own…

May be at that time, the average life span was only 50 to 60 years. Who would have thought he would live fifty years more to outlive his own son?

Anyway what I noticed was that everybody was very fond of him, grownups as well as kids. There was always somebody to hold his glass for him. Always there were Kids to play with his pocket knife. The supply of Betel leaves and Areca Nuts never diminished. He always got the royal treatment from everybody and where ever he went for any function, he always had the VIP seat…. so maybe I am wrong to think that he might have been lonely inside.

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About Michael, a memoir from my time in Nigeria…

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There was a time in my life when I taught Mathematics & Physics to 8, 9 & 10 grades in a Technical College in Nigeria. I was in my early 30s.

Nigerians give very importance to education. Even though Nigeria was a gas-rich country at that time, majority of the people were poor. Most of the kids had to work hard to fend for the family. So usually in one family, while all the kids are engaged in some kind of work to make money for the family, at least one kid will be sent to school, hoping he/she would have some education and once he/she completes the education & finds a job with his/her qualifications, as soon as he/she gets a job, he/she will help his siblings to get their education. It may be an unwritten rule, but one who got the education, followed the rule religiously and never forgot his/her obligation to the family for sending him/her to get his/her education.

I liked to teach Nigerian kids. I have never seen such humble kids in my life. They gave respect to their elders & Teachers. They were also very eager to learn. I was more than willing to repeat the same thing again and again till everybody understood what I was teaching them. I insisted them to learn Multiplication Table by-heart even though it was not in their syllabus. I didn’t allow them to use the Calculator.

That particular year in 8th grade, when I was taking the attendance, each student got up to show the presence. There were about 35 kids in that class. Some of the kids in the class were taller & bigger than me. The ages of the kids were between 14 to 20 or so.

When I called out the name ‘Michael Achusim’, everybody turned their heads to the back, and the person whose name it was looked down. He was sitting at the back row, at the end. He was tall and might be about eighteen years old. He looked up and then again looked down. It was a shock to me too, when I saw his face. His upper lips had a big gap and one or two teeth were kind of protruding through that space. It was a very ugly sight. He had Cleft lip or Cleft palate. I tried my best not to show any expression on my face. And I succeeded. I continued teaching as normal.

In that 8th grade class whenever I taught Mathematics, I tried not to look at the last row because I was scared that the expression on my face would give me away and I didn’t want to hurt Michael in any way. I never asked him any questions. But I have heard him talking to other kids once or twice and he sounded differently since the wind passed through the gap of the lip and words were not clear.

My husband was a General Surgeon in one private Hospital in that town. One day I saw him drawing a Cleft lip and making some plans on it. Then I knew that he was doing that kind of Surgery at the Hospital. I thought about Michael. I guessed Michael would be coming from an ordinary family, so he would not be able to come to that Hospital to undergo that plastic surgery.

I talked about Michael to my husband.

He told me, “You know that it is not my Hospital and I am just working there. How can I do it free for him? I have no authority to do it free.”

I told him, how bad Michael was being treated by other kids and how conscious he was about his short coming…

At last my husband agreed to ask the accountant for a discount for Michael and the Accountant consulted the owner of the Hospital and he agreed too.

Next day when I went to School, I called Michael to my office and explained to him to go to my husband’s Hospital for a Surgery and his face fell. He knew that he couldn’t afford an operation in that Hospital. I told him that I had fixed a discount for him.

“Go to your village & inform your parents and bring as much money as you can get and go to the Hospital”

Next week Michael didn’t come to School. I knew he had followed what I told him. After one more week, one day Michael came to see me, not at the School, but at the quarters of the Hospital. I saw Michael. His bandage was already removed. He looked handsome. He smiled and he didn’t say much, but his eyes said everything to me.

I was so happy..

Next week when I went to School, I called the attendance. Michael was absent.

Next day also he didn’t come.

When I called ‘Michael Achusim’, the kids in the class laughed.

Somebody from the back commented:

“Mom, he will not come. He has to catch up with so many things, all the things he missed, all the girls..”

Kids laughed loudly. I stood there as if I didn’t understand!

I waited for him. But he never came to school.

I never saw Michael again. But I never regret for becoming the reason of his abandonment of his education somewhere in the middle like that.

I know that he is happy, where ever he is. I am happy too that I could do something for somebody.

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Stranger in my prayers

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Every day I do the usual prayers of Orthodox Christians….Our father… Holy Mary….

I knew them by-heart and learned them in my childhood. When I was trying to learn them by-heart, I was refused lunch at times when I couldn’t do it by-heart within the time limit given to study. Who in their right mind, on a summer vacation, at the age of ten would like to sit down and recite prayers hundred times to remember them by-heart? Instead I played in the yard in the hot sun, climbed the Guava and Mango Trees, played on the swings made of Coir yarn, tried to catch fish with home-made fishing rods. I didn’t have money to buy hooks or the lines for fishing. My fishing rods were of any thin long sticks from any tree I could get hold of. I made hooks from paper clips, I stole from my father’s office room. My floats were small twigs. Lures were worms and they were plenty and easily available too. If I was caught fishing in the canal in front of our house, I got a lot of scolding from everybody in the house. It was a taboo for a girl from a good home to fish even if she did it in front of the house. I did it anyway. I was caught most of the time.

Even now I postpone the daily prayer to the very last chore of the day before I go to sleep. I try to blame this postponement as an act of all the Devils dwelling in me trying to make me a good follower of them. When I pray, most of the time, my mouth will be repeating what I learned and my thoughts will be wandering all over the world. When I become conscious about this wandering of the mind, I scold myself & try to concentrate in the prayer. At the end of these by-heart prayers, there is a small prayer which comes from the bottom of my Heart, I confide to God. I try to remember almost all the people somehow connected to me, including my family, siblings, close relatives, friends, cousins, in-laws, all the people who are good. Actually all the good people in this world do not need my recommendation, I know. Then comes the silhouette of a young white guy.. I don’t remember his face. I don’t remember his clothes, hair style or its color. But I remember him in my prayers and God will know whom I am thinking about. I pray to God to look after him give him everything good, not to give him any sorrow and only good things should happen in his life….

I will not be able to identify him, unless he comes & tells me, that he is the one I am talking about.

That day I was late to work. I didn’t have cash with me for the Lunch. I used to take lunch from home. Then I stopped it. It was my decision. I used to take left over of dinner for my next day’s Lunch. I hated to eat cold food. It reminds me of my school lunches. How much I yearned for warm food for my lunch when I was in School. My house was far away and sending a person from home just for bringing warm lunch for me was a waste of time & effort of a person. Once the Microwave was introduced to this world, I knew it is specially sent for me by God. At the office, we had a Microwave in a small side room on the side of the main Hall where everybody had their cubicles. When food is warmed in the microwave, the smell of the spices in the food with the steam filled the small room and it spread to the Hall too. Not all the American food has strong spices like Indian dishes. So I was kind of embarrassed when the smell of ‘Biriyani’ or fried fish or ‘Sambar’ lingered into the Hall when I warmed my lunch. Nobody complained, but I thought for somebody who was not used to these smells, these different smells would be a punishment. So I stopped taking Lunch to my Office. So I needed lunch money to buy lunch today.

This particular day was very cloudy. It looked like as if it is going to rain. The weather was cold. I need some cash. I have to buy lunch. If I go through the Bank’s drive-through, I could save some time. So I went to the Bank’s drive through. There were two drive ways at the back of the Bank for drive-through, one very near to the Bank building with a cashier at the window, the other in front of two ATM machines on an Island of Concrete.

It started to drizzle. There were one car in front of the Cashier, and another in front of the ATM and one small Truck in front of me, not sure of whether to go to the Cashier or to the ATM.

I waited for the two Cars to move and the Truck to make up its mind where to go. Two cars in the front left and Truck didn’t move for half a minute or so, so I assumed that, it might be going to the ATM. Till today I have no idea why I assumed so! I moved my Car through the left of the Truck & tried to go to the Cashier. Because of the drizzle & the wiper moving slowly I couldn’t see well. But as soon as I moved to the front of the Truck, I understood that I did cut the line.

I could see the face of the Truck Driver. He was very upset. I stepped on the Break. Car stopped. All my calculations & assumptions were wrong. I could see through the right side mirror of my car that the corner of the Island of the ATMs had gone under my Car between the front & back tires. I could see the eyes of the Cashier bulging..

I didn’t know whether to cry or scream….

No way would I be able to drive my car out of this mess myself.

I didn’t have a choice, other than going to the Truck Driver asking for his help.

I was embarrassed, but I was very humbled, I knew that I was wrong, but I didn’t know I was cutting the line when I drove in front of that Truck.

I walked slowly to the Truck Driver.

He was fuming. He was shouting at the top of his voice blaming me for the mess I was in. I listened and then I wanted to say, “I am sorry, I didn’t know that I was cutting you. I thought..”

But, he didn’t give me a chance to talk. He didn’t want to listen to what I had to say.

I was going to ask him to help me to get my Car out of that Island.

He continued his shouting…

In this commotion, I could see a man hunching on my side…

He asked me, “Mam, Shall I help you to drive your Car?”

I couldn’t hear him well because of the shouting of the Truck Driver.

He held his hand to me and said, “Give me the key, Mam”

I gave him the key. He didn’t say another word.

He went to my Car and brought it out, gave back my key, thanked me as if I did him a favor & walked to his car in the line at the far end.

True, he was sent by God to help me from my embarrassment. I didn’t see his face clearly and so I can’t remember his face.

I don’t know his name. But he has a special place in my daily prayers and in my Heart till I live. I pray to God “bless that stranger”.

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The Greatest Love Story I witnessed…..

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I witnessed this Love Story every day of my life, but at that time, I didn’t know this is what the Love is all about. It was just a part of my life. I didn’t notice anything special about it… all just a routine…

My mother was chosen as my father’s wife by my grandfather. It took only few minutes for my grandfather to choose that twelve year old girl who came to the neighbor’s well to fetch water as his daughter-in-law.

When my father saw her for the first time, she was sitting on the top of a tree. It was the summer vacation for a 7th grader and what better way to spend time on an afternoon in summer!

When the marriage was fixed, mother’s grandmother came to see my mother’s mother. Grandmother held my mother & wept.

“Why don’t you drown her in the river instead of sending her to a mother-in-law like that?” That was my grandmother’s complaint to my mother’s mother.

Whatever the opposition and whoever opposed, that marriage took place. My father had high fever when he was tying the knot. He even fainted & taken to the Hospital immediately after the marriage. He had Pneumonia. He had to spend more than ten days in the Hospital. What a Honeymoon!

My mother delivered 5 times, but had 6 kids. She had twin sons before me. Family planning was unknown at that time. She stopped getting pregnant after her 4th delivery, I think, but then accidentally I was conceived after a 6 years’ break. So I was the 6th kid.

My mother’s mother and father died few years before I was born. So my father & mother had to take care of my mother’s siblings too.  Thus, two boys & one girl, from my mother’s side became a part of our family. Our family became a big family. My father took care of everybody, six kids of his own and three from mother’s side.

My father was about 5’8” tall and slender. He was dark in complexion. He had thin lips & long thin nose. I often wondered how my mother fell in love with my father.

He was just an ordinary person in his looks, but he could mesmerize the whole audience once he opened his mouth & started talking…

Comparing to him, mother was very fair and good looking. But according to her the standard beauty of nose, lips, height and everything is as of my father’s. From her opinion I also believed my father’s nose is the way nose should be, long & thin…

When I started seeing English movies during my teenage, I wondered about the noses of the actresses like Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor etc. They had short nose, so how could they be pretty? The standard of these English people!

Father tried all kinds of trades to fend for the family. First he was a Teacher, and then moved to a town far away from his native village and he became a salesman. He even tried to run a Jewelry shop.

Every day, a big pot of hot water was there in the bathroom for his bath. In the mornings, even if there were plenty of jobs to attend to in the kitchen, mother used to help him in his bath. It was a daily ritual. Nobody saw anything odd about this, just like the way they slept together. They always slept in the same bed. Sometimes, I sneaked in between them, if I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep, scared of the dark.

After the bath, father would wear the ironed & neatly folded white clothes, already kept on the bed by mother. Then he would lie on his special Recliner. Mother will be ready there with a comb and a little powder in her palm. She combed his hair & put powder on his face. Then she would fold his full length arms of the shirt half way.

I have asked her many times, why she was combing his hair, why couldn’t he do it himself?

“He doesn’t even know to divide/part his hair on the side as I do” mother said.

She would put the shawl around his neck, before he left.

All these rituals were done every day in front of everybody. So nobody found it anything special.

When she made rice, before she served to anybody, she kept the first serving in a plate & kept for my father who came late for his lunch.

Anytime when he came back home, even if mother was fully immersed in some work, even cutting fish, she would clean up quickly and run to the front of the house to welcome him. All of us would follow her. If my father had anything in his hands, my mother would shout,

“Go get the load from his hands. Can’t you see, he is tired and with his health, how can he carry that entire load?”

We would run to him & fight with each other to get the stuff from him.

She had painted him as a person very next to God and treated him like that and made sure all of us also loved & treated him the same way.

She always sat in front of him, when he ate his late Lunch. In between each mouthful, he would be explaining to her where he went, what he saw, whom he met and what he talked about from the time he left that morning till he reached back. It was very interesting to hear his descriptions, so sometimes I would also join them. I was thus convinced what an interesting character he was.

Father was very hot tempered at times. Even if it was not mother’s fault, I never saw her talking back to him. She would be silent all the time, while he was shouting at the top of his voice. All of us, the kids, would hide some where he wouldn’t see us while this commotion was going on.

The most important person in my mother’s life was my father. To her, he was the most handsome and desirable man in this world. He was the smartest guy in the whole world.

She loved him more than anybody or anything. She couldn’t enjoy anything, if father was not around. They were very much in love with each other.

According to my mother, ‘nothing is impossible for him’.

So when he died, she found nothing to hold on. Her kids were second to him. I didn’t know my mother that well before my father’s death. There was nobody to tell us, the kids, about her greatness. But all that time she was there to make us believe what a great guy my father was.

When I lost my father, I felt as if I lost more than half of my attachment to my family.

Because that’s the way my mother made us believe. Then little by little I started to see my mother, in a different way. She had only 7th grade pass. She didn’t know English. But my father was very proficient in English and he taught mother to sign her name in English. In 60’s when pressure cookers appeared in the shops, mother started using them. She had three pressure cookers at the same time. At times, all of them will be on the cooking range one with rice, one with fish or meat and the last with Sambar or Aviyal. Mother’s dreams about me were that I should be able to play any tune I hear on the Piano and should be able to drive a car. I learnt classical music and instrumental music for more than 6 years. But I did never reach the level to play any tune I hear on a Piano. But I learned to drive. Most of the time, when I drive, I remember mother, how happy she should be to see me driving.

Father established a Coir Mats and Mattings Export Business all by himself in early 60’s. I remember him typing with two fingers, the letters for the business at night, when his manager was not around to help him.

Mother had a small patch of Tapioca farm in the yard. When she put fertilizer or harvested the Tapioca, father would join her and then I have heard him explaining his business deals and problems with customers in Amsterdam, Germany, Ireland etc., to mother, somebody who doesn’t know English!

When his friends visited him in some evenings for a tea, in front of her, father would talk very highly about her Tapioca farm, but when she was not around, I have heard him making fun of her to his friends explaining in Rupees, how much she spent for it, how much she earned from it. He praised her at times reciting the verses in the Bible. ‘A wife is like a merchant ship… a wife is like a crown to her husband …’ Even though she showed that she is least interested in these praises the secret smile on her face proved otherwise.

Father made sure to fulfill all her dreams.

‘To have a house in the Town’

‘There should be road to reach the house.’

‘There should be pipe water in the house.’

These were her dreams.

Where we lived for fourteen years, there was no good road to reach the house. There was no pipe water. We had to go about one mile to get pipe water.

During Monsoon, our yard was filled with flood water. Sometimes water came into the rooms even.

Father bought a house and it was exactly the way mother wanted.

Cars came in its Patio. There were pipes for water inside the house.

Mother treated father as her first born and took care of everything as if “your wish is my command”.

I have seen and observed many couples in my life, some very closely than others, but I have never seen the love & understanding my parents had each other, anywhere else. I will never say that they were perfect… but their love-life was amazing and perfect.

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Buy one get one free…

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‘From Address’ for that envelope was local Cemetery.

It was addressed to me. So I opened it thinking some local Tax or a donation request.

But the letter inside started as

“We are pleased to offer you a free lot in our Cemetery. It is an offer of buy one, get one free. Pay only $500.00 for one lot.”

I didn’t read the rest of it.

It was a shock to me.

‘Have I reached that age?’

‘Sixty four’, is it that old to get ready for the last trip?

When my eyes skim through the Obituary page of the Daily News Paper, I usually check the places to see is there anybody I know?  If I am bored and I have nothing else to do & some time to kill, then I check just the ages of all those people gone, just to do a comparison, are they very old, or just few years older than me or just my age or younger than  me? That is just a game for me. Nothing serious….

But this mail gave me a shock of reality.

Come to think of age…

The 60th Birthday, “Shashtiabdapoorthi” of my father, we celebrated.

I thought at the age of 60 he was too old. I never knew at that time that the soul would not age with the body. Now at this age, I know that fact. History repeats…the younger generation still doesn’t know this fact.

I remember my mother used to say that my father’s Sandals never broke, but always Sandals’ soles became worn out because he walked in them every day more than five to ten miles. I was happy to present him something he would use every day. So I bought a pair of Sandals as a present for his “Shashtiabdapoorthi”. Rest of the siblings bought Shirt, ‘Mundu’, Shawl, Umbrella etc. He worn all the presents he got for the special occasion and went to church on Sunday. All of us accompanied him to the church. After the Service when father came out from the church, he noticed that he lost his new Sandals & Umbrella to somebody who needed them more than him.

I tried not to think about age or death, but those thoughts linger in my mind all the time.

I was no more interested in material things. When I went for shopping, jewelry or clothes or kitchen stuff did not interest me any more. I saw them as a waste. There is no point in accumulating any of that stuff if I can’t guarantee that I will be alive to use them. I looked at the stuff in my showcases. What is the purpose of holding on to them, if I am not around to enjoy them? I used to change my chain or Bracelet or ear drops once in a while. Now I was no more interested in any of those rituals. My nail polish is all chipped, but it didn’t bother me anymore. Who cares?

I talked to my husband about the mail next day.

He told me, “I was thinking that we should buy some lots”

“Do you like it in public Cemetery or the one belonging to our church?” he added.

It was just a matter of fact conversation.

He didn’t ask me about burying in my Native land. He knew that I don’t like the dead bodies to be carried around for the funeral to far away places. I have told that it is always better to do the funeral where ever the person dies, instead of carrying it to far away places. Close relatives will be already sad because of the demise and prolonging the funeral by carrying dead body around will only make them more miserable.

When my Mother visited me once she asked me.

“Do you want to see me dead before the funeral, if you were not near me, when I die?”

Nobody likes to talk about death. Before I could answer that she said,

“Isn’t it better to remember my face as live, than dead? I don’t want to be placed in a mortuary. Promise me that you will not request to keep my body in a mortuary, when I die.”

I thought about it for a minute, before I answered “Yes”. So I promised her that I will not request to keep her in the mortuary.

One early morning when I got the news of her death, I said to my eldest brother over the phone,

“You don’t have to keep her in the mortuary for me to see her before the funeral”

Then he said, “Any way she is kept in the mortuary, you may come if you wish”

So I went home to witness her funeral. I understood the fact that a dead person has no choice.

Then one day my husband told me,

“This is not where we grew up, so there will not be relatives or elders to take care of when we die, so we should buy the lots. Our children are not living nearby, so they should not be bothered with all these, when it happens.”

So next time when I went to the church, I talked to Zid, the person in charge of the church lots. He gave me the plan of the church Cemetery.

There were names written for certain lots and some names were put in brackets.

Zid told me the names in brackets are booked ones. They are not dead, yet.

I started reading the names. The names in brackets or not I don’t know any of these guys. I don’t want to be buried near a stranger.

I started reading the names one by one slowly. At last I found a name I know well, Keegans. Oh my God. That lovely couple was my neighbors. They lived just in front of our house, in the same lot. They were Irish. They were always together. Even for doing the yard work outside, they were together. It was a pleasure to see them together like that even though they looked aged & tired.

We had gone to see Keegan one or two weeks after his wife Alice died.

He told us ‘how difficult it was to cope all alone especially since he was not any good in cooking’.

He died within one year. Somebody else bought that house and moved in soon.

Staying near somebody I know even if I will be in a coffin made my mind at ease.

Next week, when I met Zid, I told him that I found a spot near Keegans. He knew Keegans.

“Where exactly is your lot?” I asked Zid.

He told me that his was not very far away from Keegans.

“Anyway, don’t forget to invite us for the parties” I joked to him.

“Sure, I will not forget”, Zid said.

Last week, my husband got a mail from the same Public Cemetery.

“We are pleased to offer you a free lot in our Cemetery. It is an offer: Buy one, get one free. Pay only $634.00 for one lot.”

We had a good laugh…

“So, church lot is still cheaper…” Real Estate is still a good business.




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