Dear thatha,
It will be 8 years tomorrow since you left us. It is ironical how I feel closer to you only after you bid goodbye.
Do you remember the big old house at Periyakulam?. I do. Your room upstairs, your voice, and the pictures you took. I have vague recollections of the terrace and the backyard, like an old fading picture. Of you giving me chocolates. Of the smell of cigarettes. Of the voice. The voice that sounded like a lion's roar.
Memories like the almost-fading black and white pictures of you and Anbu thatha with your parents. Your birthday cards signed "Pappa thatha"... you always used to send us one no matter where you were. Of discovering your diary after you were gone, with everyone's birthdays noted down in that neat script of yours. Your list included everyone in the family, and the extended family. Of how I cried holding onto that diary in the dark corner of my room, realizing how much you cared, but never showed it to us. Of seeing you cuddled up before your surgery, the sudden realization dawning on me that you were scared, but chose to hide it in the resounding laughs in front of the others.
I remember your eyes when you came home from the surgery. Searching for reaction in mine. Reaction to the weight loss and the fragile frame you had become. To how the lion's roar was now a whisper. And I remember me trying to brush off any reaction, and act normal on seeing you. I could not bear to see the lion reduced to a little kid thatha.....
Your attempt to get dentures and show them off to me and athai is an oft told funny anectode in my circle. Thinking about it now, I am touched at how you wanted acceptance from us. I guess that is what I hold on to. The passion for life, the willpower, the thirst for knowledge.
It is funny how I had always thought of you as competition, fighting, clashing egos and pretty much making life hell for the both of us and for Appa. I can only imagine the pain I should have caused him when I made him choose between you and me. I am sorry Appa. You know what is funnier? Of all the people, I feel the closest to you. I turn to you in times of need. And you are always there for me. I belong to the family of someone who quit smoking and changed his habits out of sheer willpower - the thought that always tides me through pain and weakness. It hurts to know what I missed by being the haughty immature kid I was. I guess that is my cross to bear.
I want to let you know how proud I am to be your grand daughter. Its not easy being in your lineage. You set quite a high standard.
I wish I could take you around now. I know the perfect little restaurant you will enjoy, the long walks you will relish, and the books and music that you like.
I miss you.
It will be 8 years tomorrow since you left us. It is ironical how I feel closer to you only after you bid goodbye.
Do you remember the big old house at Periyakulam?. I do. Your room upstairs, your voice, and the pictures you took. I have vague recollections of the terrace and the backyard, like an old fading picture. Of you giving me chocolates. Of the smell of cigarettes. Of the voice. The voice that sounded like a lion's roar.
Memories like the almost-fading black and white pictures of you and Anbu thatha with your parents. Your birthday cards signed "Pappa thatha"... you always used to send us one no matter where you were. Of discovering your diary after you were gone, with everyone's birthdays noted down in that neat script of yours. Your list included everyone in the family, and the extended family. Of how I cried holding onto that diary in the dark corner of my room, realizing how much you cared, but never showed it to us. Of seeing you cuddled up before your surgery, the sudden realization dawning on me that you were scared, but chose to hide it in the resounding laughs in front of the others.
I remember your eyes when you came home from the surgery. Searching for reaction in mine. Reaction to the weight loss and the fragile frame you had become. To how the lion's roar was now a whisper. And I remember me trying to brush off any reaction, and act normal on seeing you. I could not bear to see the lion reduced to a little kid thatha.....
Your attempt to get dentures and show them off to me and athai is an oft told funny anectode in my circle. Thinking about it now, I am touched at how you wanted acceptance from us. I guess that is what I hold on to. The passion for life, the willpower, the thirst for knowledge.
It is funny how I had always thought of you as competition, fighting, clashing egos and pretty much making life hell for the both of us and for Appa. I can only imagine the pain I should have caused him when I made him choose between you and me. I am sorry Appa. You know what is funnier? Of all the people, I feel the closest to you. I turn to you in times of need. And you are always there for me. I belong to the family of someone who quit smoking and changed his habits out of sheer willpower - the thought that always tides me through pain and weakness. It hurts to know what I missed by being the haughty immature kid I was. I guess that is my cross to bear.
I want to let you know how proud I am to be your grand daughter. Its not easy being in your lineage. You set quite a high standard.
I wish I could take you around now. I know the perfect little restaurant you will enjoy, the long walks you will relish, and the books and music that you like.
I miss you.
