Buns and Corners

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I lost my appoo this week, my grandfather (appooppan). My appoo (as I fondly called him) was many things to many people. He was called by many names. He was sir to his colleagues and students, he was achan, thangochettan, thanguvelliachan, appooppan to his family. He was an educator and a fighter. The appoo I knew though was retired from work. Yet it never ceased to amaze me that my appoo touched so many lives. Generations of students of his often dropped by in our Changanacherry house. I have fond memories of Changanacherry. It will always and has always been part of my life.

As I now reflect, sitting miles away from where my appoo was cremated, I realise that my appoo has and will continue to exert a heavy influence on my life and the way I live it. A large part of my experience during the holidays and vacations that I spent in Changanacherry involved him. I remember, my disgruntled sleepy bum emerging from my bed at 10, when my appoo, would urge me to get cleaned up so that he could give me the jumbled words in the Indian Express. For that matter, he did that to all of us, my cousins. His day used to start at 4. He’d make his cup of tea. He was known to do suryanamaskar 101 times everyday, take bath and then get dressed. His black square glasses, his striped white shirt, either a white mundu or grey pants, a pen nestled in his front pocket along with a handkerchief. Even in his last moments, excepting the surya namaskar and possibly a shift from 4 am to 6 am, appoo strictly followed his routine. As strictly as he studiously did the jumbled words and wrote, analysed everything he read. He’d read a book as big as me as we toiled with the jumbled words. “Ha”, his impatient and deep voice would ring through our house when we strayed from the paper. Little did I realise these little things I observed about my appoo had a lasting impression on me. It taught me to persevere whenever I fell. It taught me to not listen to voices that questioned my choice of career or of study. My appoo was one of the very few people who appreciated what I was trying to do and tried to understand and learn.

I listened to my appoo fascinated whenever he narrated tales from his life. His life as an educator, as a brother, as a father and as a husband. I would watch appoo tease my ammachi (my grandmother) relentlessly. My ammachi is a cutie. My days at Changanacherry would be filled with amusement as I watched my appoo and ammachi carry on bickering day in a day out. It was evident that they enjoyed this tremendously. I can only imagine the void in ammachi’s life. The situations he went through were incredible. He told me with a grim straight face, the story of cycling in his youth to the hospital for his younger brother who sadly passed away. I watched him reminisce and then philosophise that the same time his brother passed away, a woman gave birth next door. He mused that maybe that was his brother! He chuckled as he told me his failed attempts to learn how to drive from his co-brother, Vippi appooppan ( yet another person who exerted a strong influence in my time in Changnacherry, whom we lost the past year). He would tell us over and over again how he drove Vippi appooppan’s car into a ditch! He’d narrate the pre-independence era and the atmosphere at the time. Stories, I never realised then were so precious, though I don’t know why. I aggressively try to recollect my times with him. They occur to me in fragments though.

But I digress. Appoo had his routine. He would attend discussions in Mythri Mandalam and visit the library. No matter where he went, he either found a library or vayanashala (reading room). His long black kaalan kuda (umbrella) in his hand. He’d come back and lie down on his charukasera(easy chair) and read. Sometimes I’d watch him, his head bent over his study table, writing in his long loopy handwriting. His portraits hang from the walls of Changnacherry. Yet another side of my appoo I was fascinated by. I never saw him paint. Although, there still sits, to this day and unfinished painting of his mother. I never got to learn why he never finished. I constantly quizzed him about it. He never answered and now will never. In the evenings I often found him in our backyard. We would sometimes be tasked with deweeding the backyard, which I assure you I was never really happy about doing. He’d carry his pickaxe, spade and plant the green that surrounds our Changanacherry house. He then watered them and lovingly tended to them. My appoo had six-packs long before the protein powder fed, gym rats made it famous. He proudly spoke about the trees that my brother and cousin helped him plant. He always had little anecdotes about his grandchildren, Ramu who gifts him books, Bharath who painted very well, Pooja who called an ambulance in time, Appu who is smart, Ponnu who is stately and tall and many more of those. I wonder though how he thought of me.

What I didn’t realise until now was that appoo never advised me. Yet he was one of those people I unwittingly imbibed and quoted. Maybe he meant to, may be he didn’t, but he led his life by example. While I have never known appoo as a teacher, I saw the teacher in him come through several times. His meticulous life, the way he worked really hard even when he didn’t have to. Appoo was stubborn. My God, was he stubborn. Even during his last days, when his health failed him incessantly, appoo was particular about doing everything on his own. “Venda, njan cheythollam“, he would tell us off, if we tried to help. He wore his striped shirt, his white mundu, a pen nestled in pocket along with a handkerchief, to the very end. My appoo loved good food. He ate as he worked. He enjoyed each morsel. He was the only person I knew who ate as slowly as I did. Appoo and I used to be the only people who would be left at the table during family gatherings. And now I would be at that table alone with no-one to look at me slyly and smile at me as I ate.

I would like to believe that my appoo will always stay with me as I work insanely hard or when I write, or when I read. I would like to believe my love for languages, I got largely from him among others. During one of my visits to Changnacherry, my appoo thrusted a magazine in my hand titled, “Ente Muthassanu” – a lovely piece written by a lady. He never said anything. He just made me read it like he always did. He used to always show me random paragraphs and articles he felt I should read. Maybe that one time he showed me the poem, he wanted me to write a piece about him . May be he didn’t. May be this is my way of dealing with a grief so profound that was born out of loss. I try really hard and have been trying to recollect memories in a desperate attempt to deal with my grief. Yet, they come to me in fragments. Maybe what he did leave was his incredible work ethic, his insatiable thirst for knowledge and this strong urge in me to make young lives better. He did so without preaching.

He lived a wonderful life and I’m honoured to have known him, for sure. He was a blessed soul, in a bizarre world.

But no matter how many times I tell this to myself or others tell this to me, the void he leaves can never be filled.