Athamma

I was going through some old files and came across this document from March 2015. I don't know if I posted it here or on the personal blog I had back then. The writing is from five years ago but I want to save it here so I don't lose it.

Athamma

Athamma, my grandmother, passed away last week. Sunday night, we all had dinner together, we all ate well, spent time together. We went to bed. An hour later, she woke me up saying she wasn’t feeling well. Asked me to call Amma, my mother. She said she couldn’t breathe. That she was dying. She held my hand. She rested her head on Amma’s shoulder. I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t watch her. She passed away a few minutes later.

I never saw her body. But Mami did, and he said that she looked like she was fast asleep. We left the coffin closed. She didn’t want people to see her body. She didn’t want people to see her once she was older and ill. The coffin was surrounded by flowers. It was beautiful. So elegant. Like the person she was.

At the cemetery, while gases were released and flames lighted, her body, in the brown coffin, slowly burnt and turned into ashes. Above us, the gray sky took away the brown smoke. She was gone. The ashes swam with the fish in the ocean. She left us. We let her go.

That moment I realized she was gone, I couldn’t deal with how sad I was. As the hours passed, as we had to keep telling and retelling the story of what happened and explain that no, she wasn’t sick, yes, she wanted the coffin to be closed, no we didn’t expect it and of course, yes, we do miss her, we miss her so much, it became a reality I accepted.

A week later, I have my moments, where I forget she’s gone or I suddenly realize she’s gone, but I thought these moments would come in a few months’ time. Isn’t it a bit too early to not feel sad?

Amma told me that she felt the same way, and her explanation was that people cry or feel immensely sad because in some way or the other, they feel guilty. They know they could have done more. It makes sense. But then, I had no responsibilities, I told Amma. And she told me that I did my share to make her happy.

It sounds narcissistic of me to say this, but as a family, even in my own way, we made sure she was happy. If a doctor studies her diet during those last few months, he would blame us for her death. She ate all the food she loved, despite them not being the best for her. Whenever I went to the store, I would buy her lollipops. She loved lollipops. She would pick a flavor and then struggle with the wrapper. So I would help her out, and soon, she’ll be enjoying the sweet, sugary treat.

Athamma also loved chocolate. But she didn’t like chocolaty food, like chocolate cake, brownies or chocolate milk. Whenever we could, we would buy her Revello and she absolutely loved it. In fact, she was a child when it came to food. When we got back with groceries, she would look in to the bags to see if there was anything for her. There was something, always.

Amma was good like that. She can never ever wonder if she wasn’t a good enough daughter. She didn’t ever say Athamma shouldn’t be eating so much sweets. She never stopped buying sweets for Athamma. This isn’t because she was oblivious to how bad these foods were for Athamma. Amma knew. But she also knew that Athamma was old, and if she didn’t get to eat the food she loved now, she never would.

That night, I made spaghetti and fish. Athamma doesn’t like spaghetti, so I served her an extra piece of fish. We never dine together. That day we did. I set the table, again, something we never do. We sat, Amma at the head, Aiya to her left, Athamma to her right, and I was next to Athamma. This is how we sit for Avurudu. And I remember thinking that this was the first time we were having dinner together since April, 2014.

As much as she hated spaghetti, that night she had a second helping. She took some from Aiya too, who claimed I had served too much for him. This wasn’t because of my great cooking skills. This was because she was in a good mood that day. Once we had emptied our plates, Athamma said, something sweet would be perfect.

Athamma made the best coconut rock on earth. They were the perfect pink and the perfect size. They weren’t hard. Soft, gooey and melted in our mouths. They were amazing. Close to avurudu, she would start making her coconut rock and aluwa. She would help Amma with milk toffee. And when I was small, she was the one who made milk toffee. When Aiya and I would disturb her, she would threaten us saying, if we don’t go away, the gonibilla would take the milk toffee away.

That was how she was. But there was more to her than food. She loved to crochet, and would make little toys, bags and whatnot for us. She would make them for our friends too, some people she never met. Most Sundays, I would write or read, while she counted as she crocheted. As soon as she made a mistake, she would remove the entire thing and start over.

She wasn’t comfortable with hugs and whatnot. She didn’t like people touching her. I get that from her. But we were close, so whenever I complained of aching feet or a back ache, she would rub balm and make sure I was okay. When I get my period stomach cramps, she would lie with me, hold my hand and tell me I’ll be okay. She’ll fill bottles with hot water, get me lime juice or thambili, sometimes even force brandy down my throat and tell me stories so I would feel better.

Quite honestly, we were friends too. I could tell her about boys I liked, how I was scared of commitment and was afraid I would never be in love. We spoke about romance, and she would advise me. Her life wasn’t easy. Marriage, divorce, financial difficulties, workplace issues. But she used those stories, experiences to tell us about life. She never made us believe in this perfect world. We were told the world was a terrible place. But she also told us, constantly reminded us that, we were strong enough to fight our way through.

Athamma worried about my inability to have male friends. I only had to mention a boy’s name and she would ask about his surname, family, school and what he was doing; studying or working. I always thought this was because she assumed every male friend was a boyfriend. But no, it was because she worried I won’t find someone. And she always said she wanted to see one of us getting married. That wish never came true for her.

There’s so much more to write about Athamma. Pages and pages. She was the kind of person whom you have so many stories to tell. She was the best.

But that’s not how this post started. This post is about how I’m dealing with her death. And even while writing all these things about her, I didn’t feel extremely sad. It isn’t because I did my share and have no reason to feel guilty. Instead, I think, it’s because I always knew she would die. And I also know that she wouldn’t want us to cry and stall our lives because of her.

During her last few years, Athamma’s interest in Buddhism/Dharma increased. She understood that death was part of life. You can’t have one without the other. And we talked about death. She was good that way, she made sure we were ready. So thanks to her, I’ve accepted Athamma’s death. I don’t wish she could have lived longer because she hated being old and falling sick. She hated depending on people. She would have hated the day she couldn’t walk without any help. She would have had to go see a doctor, take more pills than a pill for her blood pressure. She would have hated that part of her life.

Athamma, my darling Gugi, passed away when she was still the person we knew her as. She was active, lively and happy. She could get things done on her own. She didn’t have needles poking at her skin. She didn’t have to spend all her time in bed. She lived a good life.

I miss her. We all do. But more than being sad about what we have all lost, I’m thankful we were lucky to have her in our lives.