For as long as I can remember, my grandmum has always been old, almost timeless. Time is perhaps the most active change agent. It makes even actors and actresses, with millions to spare for matters, cosmetic, look like second hand imitations of their older selves – but what can it take of those like my Avayya?
In many ways, I always assumed she had conquered time. Even looking at her lying motionless, now, in the midst of a crowd, it only seemed as if she was going to awake from her nap and sip her cup of black coffee, and then some time later, brandy with hot water.
She lived a simple life that belay the many tribulations, women – especially those widowed at an early age – overcame for the prosperity of their family. At 101, she had passed. Quietly.
My Memories of Avayya (and her Imaginary Friends)
As the mournful masses milled around her body to pay their final respects, I couldn’t keep a steady mind. I was sad but also confused.
Here was a woman who in her lifetime had lived through the invention of the modern television set, World Wars I and II, the Indian freedom struggle and independence from the British, the Cold War, the Emergency, the invention of the internet, the Pokhran nuclear tests, the year 2000, her second (or third, I don’t know for sure) favourite grandkid’s playing Bryan Adams’ Summer of 69 on repeat, and much else. You tend to associate a certain degree of immortality to someone of that stature.
She was a reservoir of knowledge, the lone connecting thread between five generations of a family that stretched across many geographies far from her native town.
My own personal memories of her were fond.
When we were children, we visited Coorg in the summers a couple of times. Avayya – probably in her 70s then – still managed a home and an estate by herself. I found old houses eerie – a fact manifoldly exacerbated by Avayya’s telling us of our long deceased Granddad’s proclivities for pinching people’s bottoms in the night. I huddled under the blankets in the night, my tiny bottom firmly planted on the ground, waiting to fall asleep. It worried me greatly that the others seemed unperturbed by Granddad’s post life nocturnal harassment. Some even attested, amusingly, that they had been subject to said antics.
Sometimes, while making supper in the kitchen, she’d venture out in the abject darkness to fetch firewood or water. While we sat beside her and ate rotis and bamboo shoot curry, she’d narrate anecdotes of people and events that, for us city rats, seemed from North of Jupiter. Somehow, she seemed to know it all. Mostly, her stories were about our Uncle Jimmy and his drunken misadventures. She had a wry smile; her eyes closed momentarily in a wink. And if you saw her then, with the many wrinkles even, her face betrayed a childlike impish charm.
She also had a wicked sense of humour. Many years later, while living at my uncle’s house in Mysore, she started animated conversations with imaginary friends from across the hall. Now, if you were studying late for your board exams (like my cousin Bopu was at that time), this was no laughing matter. Try doing any of those innocuous activities you do around the house with someone actively conversing with people you can’t see, let alone host. It warranted a visit from my uncle from abroad to set things straight. Having inherited some of her traits, my uncle armed her with a stick and some ash, and is said to have told her to put it to use if ‘them imaginary friends’ showed up. Just in case. And surely enough, her friends and conversations were gone. Maybe it was a ploy to see her son, but I think she did it just for kicks.
The week after she passed, we had a traditional ceremony. The family gathered to partake in the rituals – that included sharing her virtues, praying to the gods to look upon her kindly, offering her favourite things: food and drink.
While we took turns keeping aside a morsel of rice and meat, each, for her on a plantain leaf, somebody remarked to refill the brandy. Apparently, the level of brandy in the glass from the night before had depressed. While some of us looked at Bopu, who maintained it had evaporated, I couldn’t help but smile.
It just could have been Avayya and her imaginary friends.
(Roshan Cariappa is a Bangalore-based tech entrepreneur, occasional writer, and musician. He finds inspiration in Bharat, dharma, economics, music, and startups. He tweets at @carygottheblues.)
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