An ode to her

I am torn between two thoughts - I want to go back to India to say goodbye to the woman who personified life and laughter to me and yet I stop myself making a million excuses. It’s easier than admitting that I don’t want to be in a space that was hers without her presence. I sit here conflicted, in the confines of my home in the United States feeling overwhelming grief at the thought of never seeing her again. It comes in spurts, the tears flooding my eyes as I attempt to hold it in…a song reminding me of her as I walk or a random moment we shared flashing before me, shattering the composure I am trying so hard to maintain. My Ammama (grandmother) was a 5 foot ball of energy who found ways to make everyone laugh irrespective of the language barrier that defined her life. As an Anglo-Indian of British heritage, she mashed three languages into one amalgamation. Yet, she made her thoughts known, her jokes funnier than any comedian and her presence towering beyond her height. She was the definition of laughing through life. And the thought that I will never see her again and feel her again, haunts me. 

There are moments that will always flash before my eyes when I think about my Ammama. Summer vacations when my grandfather would pick me up from the railway station and she’d be waiting at the gate for our car to arrive. It was a constant. She would wrap me in her arms as she smelled of all the dishes that she’d made for me. It was the smell of home. Of being in my Disneyland. As a child growing up in India in the 90s, I never knew the existence of Disneyland. But whenever my dad told me we were going to Kerala to visit my grandparents, it echoed the excitement of being in a far away land, in between mountains and nature, peacocks parading in the morning on the street which my grandma made sure I woke up to witness. Of chocolates and delicious food, of stories and endless laughter. That was my Disneyland, my definition of paradise and I waited for every vacation to experience it over and over again. It was the smallest of moments that defined those days - my dad and my grandma talking as I played around, my dad and my grandma ballroom dancing after a drink, the late nights of stories - that was home and moments I still recall whenever I think about my childhood. Those sentiments never changed as I grew older and moved to the US, as I had my own family and took them back to India. I became a kid every time I was with my grandparents…seeing my grandpa at the airport waiting for us and my grandma at the gate as the car came to a halt mimicked every memory of my childhood. 

To say I’ll miss her is an understatement. I will miss the feeling of being home that I felt every time I was around her. She called me “Tommy” because I’d walk around the house in shorts and a shorter haircut fixing appliances. She had a 5-star chocolate waiting for me when I got home from school, every time she bought groceries. Years later, when I visited India, she still had chocolates for me. She made my favorite dishes, retold stories I relished even after hearing them thousands of times - of childhood and innocence. She made me feel like a kid every time I was around her. She’d bribe my husband with mangoes to tempt us to visit India again. She awaited our trips more than we probably did…and that’s saying a lot coming from someone who scratched out days on a calendar to make the days go faster every time I am visiting India. She was the epitome of feistiness, courage and above all of life and laughter. She loved her family and even with a bummed knee, she waddled to the kitchen to make delicious food for us when we visited her. We joked about her penguin walk and she’d mimic a penguin. I could go on and on but she was life.

As I sit in the US far away from home, I feel cheated - cheated of all the years I thought I had with her, of all the plans we made for the future because Ammama would always be there - or so the naïve kid in me believed. My heart is shattered and broken by her passing away. The stubborn kid in me fails to believe that she is no more and that my childhood has officially ended. I’d probably never feel that burst of excitement that I felt every time I was going to meet my grandparents. Ammama, I’ll miss sipping on tea, sharing stories to the backdrop of the Indian monsoons. I’ll miss sharing 5-star and seeing the way your face lit up every time there was ice-cream or chocolate. Until we meet again and share a 5-star or cone ice-cream together, I carry a big part of you in me. Coming back to India will never be the same again!