My grandmother passed away two weeks ago. We called her Ayyamma. She was 97 years old when she left this world. A tiny, feisty character who inspired all of us. My daughter thought she was the cutest great-grandmother anyone could have. I knew her as a very strong woman who didn’t waste time with words and preferred actions instead. She was the hardest working person I have met in my life. She had a green thumb and grew lots of vegetables. Her garden was always colourful. My sister got her talent with plants. I suspect I got her resilience.
Ayyamma had had a difficult life. She was married as a child barely into her teen years. She birthed and took care of five children by herself. Fiercely independent, Ayyamma had the courage to do everything on her own during a time when it was unheard of.
We mourned our Ayyamma but blended in with the grief, was a host of memories. I remember her telling me about snakes she caught and teaching me how to weave coconut fronds into thatches. I remember watching as she gave the calf some tea in the morning saying that since she and I both liked tea, why would the calf not like it! And indeed, she did – the little calf quite enjoyed early morning tea time with us.
Saying goodbye to Ayyamma was like watching a yellow leaf fall or touching a perfectly ripe mango while it was still on the branch and watching it slip into your hand. She showed us how graceful and peaceful death could be at the end of a well-loved and well-lived life. We missed Ayyamma but didn’t grieve because we knew her time had come.
The other goodbye was heart wrenching. Five days after Ayyamma passed, my cousin too left this world after succumbing to Covid. He was just 42 years old. He left behind two very young children. While there were many cases in the locality as well as in the family, no one thought that a seemingly healthy young man would have any difficulty beating the nasty virus.
This death was a huge shock. All of us cousins kept calling each other while he was in hospital to see if we could get some second opinions or offer moral support or anything at all. One cousin found him a bed at a better facility and visited him in the ICU while keeping us informed of his progress. At the end we felt collective exhaustion and a deep-seated regret that we couldn’t help save him.
When death comes too early, we find it tough to let go. We ask ourselves why? We cannot accept it easily. A lot of guilt accompanies a death due to illness. Were the interventions too late? Was care not stepped up? The truth is we can never know what could have been done – we need to accept that the choices made were the best for that particular time and circumstance. But what of the children who await their father every evening? What do we tell them?
This second wave of the pandemic has been deadlier than the first. How many families have been bereaved and how many youngsters have been lost? What used to be news in the papers I shuddered over came home to us in the most brutal way. There seems to be nothing fair in a world that allows a two-year-old child to continue asking for her father who will never again come home.
Our goodbyes stay with us. Just like memories. Just like regrets. Just like longing. R.I.P dear ones.
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