By Deeya Menon.
My earliest memory of my grandfather is of his safari suit or bush coat, and lots of ice-cream and chocolate. My grandparents lived in India and he would visit in Malaysia annually, for about a month each time.
We looked forward to those visits. The house would be stocked with ice-cream (a must after dinner) and Coke ( his choice beverage). From the very first night of my Mutacha's arrival, I would insist on sleeping with him, in anticipation of his stories.
N.S. Sankar was a master storyteller. No two stories were ever the same and he would never repeat one he'd told. He would spin tales of kings and emperors, animals in the jungle, or just about anything that came to mind. Lying on his warm, extremely hairy chest and listening to those stories was one of the high points of my childhood.
(As I grew older and became more aware of my surroundings, story time was followed by a quick dash to my own bedroom because dear grandfather had a snore that could wake the dead!)
He was somewhat tight-fisted. But not when it came to children. Once, Mutacha bought a few bottles of Coke for himself. As I had some friends over, I opened one of them. My mother saw this and re-primanded me for not asking him first.
On my way home from school the next day, I decided to replace the bottle. I made a detour to the shop and so, got home later than usual. When Mutacha asked why I was late, I told him and he called me a stupid girl. It was only a drink.
Well, the next time he went out, he bought 12 bottles of Coke - all for me! It was his way of rewarding me for my attempt to be responsible. This was how my grandfather did things for us children. A request for a bar of chocolate was fulfilled with at least half a dozen bars. A desire for some ice-cream in his home in was satisfied with a freezer-full.
Also, if we did something successfully, we were always rewarded with some money. I once received Rs300 after learning to ride a bicycle, Rs150 for learning to skateboard and Rs100 for being able to count from one to 100 in Malayalam, all during one holiday! This way, he could give us something, and teach us its value. He was a man of many principles.
I have personally benefited from my grandfather's generosity to others. The afternoon supervisor of my secondary school happened to be the daughter of Mutacha's colleague bck when he was manager of Pamol Estate in Kluang, Johore. She told me of the times he gave her and her siblings rides home from school in his car.
There was also that story about pies baked at home and shared with these children. Anyway, the kindness and generosity he showed the supervisor and her family was repaid via a watchful eye and the sense of security I felt in those daunting first weeks of secondary school.
At his home in India, Mutacha always had kids from the slums hanging outside his main gate. They would chat with him as he sat outside the estate office, watching the coming and going around him.
In all honesty, these children were dirty and smelly, had lice in their hair, and runny nose. My grandfather saw none of this. They were just kids. He knew each one by name and could tell you all about them if you asked him. Some evenings, he would pile as many of them as they would fit into his old jalopy and take them for a drive around the village. I suspected that he kept that car solely for this purpose!
Much to my grandmother's dismay, these same children became our playmates when my brother, sister and I were there on vacation. On hindsight, I realise that this was my first and greatest lesson in humility ... one which I fully intend to pass on to my own children.
In the past two-and-a-half years, Mutacha had been ill. The illness ate away at the pound, sturdy man that he was once. Only physically, however, for his mind, soul and spirit were unconquerable. Towards the end, his mind threatened to cave in, but when the time came, clarity returned and he spoke to my grandmother right until he heaved his very last breath.
Grandfather reaped the rewards of his many good deeds at the end of his life. He enjoyed the love and care of a wife who was willing and able to take excellent care of him. A son who had spent most of his life away from home came back when he was most needed. Above all, his death was peaceful and relatively painless.
My brother had the cheeky habit of hugging Mutacha a little too hard, just so he would shout, "Aiyo!" A few days after grandfather's death in India last Nov 20, Adheel wished he could hear the expression one more time and see Mutacha just once more.
To help Adheel through this difficult time, out aunt told him that grandfather had become a star in the sky. Whenever he felt like it, he could go outside, look up at that star and talk to Mutacha, as much as he wanted.
I, too, take comfort in believing that my grandfather is now pain-free, worry-free and completely at peace, living with God and his angels and, most importantly, a beloved brother he lost some years ago.
I will never hear another story and my brother will never hear another "Aiyo!". But Mutacha will always be our star in the sky, a guiding light and guardian angel to his small but strong family of 15 - plus one on the way.
We looked forward to those visits. The house would be stocked with ice-cream (a must after dinner) and Coke ( his choice beverage). From the very first night of my Mutacha's arrival, I would insist on sleeping with him, in anticipation of his stories.
N.S. Sankar was a master storyteller. No two stories were ever the same and he would never repeat one he'd told. He would spin tales of kings and emperors, animals in the jungle, or just about anything that came to mind. Lying on his warm, extremely hairy chest and listening to those stories was one of the high points of my childhood.
(As I grew older and became more aware of my surroundings, story time was followed by a quick dash to my own bedroom because dear grandfather had a snore that could wake the dead!)
He was somewhat tight-fisted. But not when it came to children. Once, Mutacha bought a few bottles of Coke for himself. As I had some friends over, I opened one of them. My mother saw this and re-primanded me for not asking him first.
On my way home from school the next day, I decided to replace the bottle. I made a detour to the shop and so, got home later than usual. When Mutacha asked why I was late, I told him and he called me a stupid girl. It was only a drink.
Well, the next time he went out, he bought 12 bottles of Coke - all for me! It was his way of rewarding me for my attempt to be responsible. This was how my grandfather did things for us children. A request for a bar of chocolate was fulfilled with at least half a dozen bars. A desire for some ice-cream in his home in was satisfied with a freezer-full.
Also, if we did something successfully, we were always rewarded with some money. I once received Rs300 after learning to ride a bicycle, Rs150 for learning to skateboard and Rs100 for being able to count from one to 100 in Malayalam, all during one holiday! This way, he could give us something, and teach us its value. He was a man of many principles.
I have personally benefited from my grandfather's generosity to others. The afternoon supervisor of my secondary school happened to be the daughter of Mutacha's colleague bck when he was manager of Pamol Estate in Kluang, Johore. She told me of the times he gave her and her siblings rides home from school in his car.
There was also that story about pies baked at home and shared with these children. Anyway, the kindness and generosity he showed the supervisor and her family was repaid via a watchful eye and the sense of security I felt in those daunting first weeks of secondary school.
At his home in India, Mutacha always had kids from the slums hanging outside his main gate. They would chat with him as he sat outside the estate office, watching the coming and going around him.
In all honesty, these children were dirty and smelly, had lice in their hair, and runny nose. My grandfather saw none of this. They were just kids. He knew each one by name and could tell you all about them if you asked him. Some evenings, he would pile as many of them as they would fit into his old jalopy and take them for a drive around the village. I suspected that he kept that car solely for this purpose!
Much to my grandmother's dismay, these same children became our playmates when my brother, sister and I were there on vacation. On hindsight, I realise that this was my first and greatest lesson in humility ... one which I fully intend to pass on to my own children.
In the past two-and-a-half years, Mutacha had been ill. The illness ate away at the pound, sturdy man that he was once. Only physically, however, for his mind, soul and spirit were unconquerable. Towards the end, his mind threatened to cave in, but when the time came, clarity returned and he spoke to my grandmother right until he heaved his very last breath.
Grandfather reaped the rewards of his many good deeds at the end of his life. He enjoyed the love and care of a wife who was willing and able to take excellent care of him. A son who had spent most of his life away from home came back when he was most needed. Above all, his death was peaceful and relatively painless.
My brother had the cheeky habit of hugging Mutacha a little too hard, just so he would shout, "Aiyo!" A few days after grandfather's death in India last Nov 20, Adheel wished he could hear the expression one more time and see Mutacha just once more.
To help Adheel through this difficult time, out aunt told him that grandfather had become a star in the sky. Whenever he felt like it, he could go outside, look up at that star and talk to Mutacha, as much as he wanted.
I, too, take comfort in believing that my grandfather is now pain-free, worry-free and completely at peace, living with God and his angels and, most importantly, a beloved brother he lost some years ago.
I will never hear another story and my brother will never hear another "Aiyo!". But Mutacha will always be our star in the sky, a guiding light and guardian angel to his small but strong family of 15 - plus one on the way.
0 thoughts:
Post a Comment