Friday, 31 Aug 2012

What can I say about an 80-year old woman who died?

 

That she was dark like Kali. That she had luminescent piercing eyes. That her frail body hid a steel will. That she loved life like a child. That she'd go traipsing off to trade fairs and home exhibitions - with a train of cousins, kids. That she loved crispy fried snacks, dosas, thick curd, huge masala papad sprinkled with chilli powder. That she made a long journey every week - for decades - to her favourite Kalikambal temple and Kapaleeswarar temple, traveling by bus and rickshaw and on foot. That she was the fountainhead of a family of five daughters, three sons, 18 grandchildren, 17 great-grandchildren with another on the way - not counting of course the scores of first, second, third cousins, their children and grand children and relatives by marriage. That she was young enough at 80 to blush if someone made her sit next to her husband of 69 years. That she could make an accurate prediction by looking at someone's palm - but always had a good word no matter what the palm said. That she loved life with every fibre of her being - the taste and colour and fragrance and touch of life - she couldn't get enough of it. That she loved the small joys - mehendi on her hands, colouring her grey hair black, playing dice with us kids, horlicks on rainy days, samosa crumbs... That she passed away on her favourite Friday, on a full Poornima, after her morning pujas, right after she did her morning temple visit, just like that, by merely walking into the house and lying on her cot, as if that's what she meant to do all along.

 

What I'd like to say the most is that she was - she is - my grandmother and I was the love of her life, atleast one of the many loves of her mighty and tremendous life. She raised me for a good many years and then watched from a distance the growth of my adolescence and adulthood. As time went by, she changed from the one true love of my childhood to the sanctum of my summer vacations to exciting grandmom who visited with lots of stories to slightly-backward-but-respected-grandmother who had to be visited during trips home to a wondrous being who had twice my energy at thrice my age. And now, when she is no more, I realize finally, my little grandma wrapped like a doll in her nine yards of cotton, has taught me how to live and perhaps more importantly, has taught me how to die. I only hope I get to do it like her - - just like that, rockstar style.