Death, Grief and Immortality — An open letter to my relationship with my late grandfather.
By: Harry Noble M
Tags: Death And Grief, Death And Dying, How To Deal With Grief, Grief And Loss, Family

I tend to do not so well with death. I never have. I have witnessed a fair share of deaths in my short span. But it just seems to be getting more and more harder as it goes.

Even as a preschooler I was used to soggy pillows. I feared the death of my loved ones the most. It kept me up at night. Waking up from nightmares and crying was not an unusual thing for me. I have struggled with separation and I continue to do so. Words have always helped me, so I figured it only made sense to take refuge in them.

I used to sleep with my grandparents during my early days. Appachan used to make sure I learnt something each day. Sometimes he would talk to me about plants and animals, while other nights were reserved for poems and stories. He was a retired Biology and English teacher. It was only natural of him to try and impart the best of what he knew. He used to like listening to the stories I would cook up. He used to correct all the grammatical errors I made. Whenever I slept next to him he used to take hold of my tiny palm and place it on his chest. He used to tell me that he enjoyed that feeling. And I still remember him saying it. It makes me feel something sort of an incomplete puzzle today.

He was not just a grandfather to me. He is the one who held my hand and made me write for the first time. He is the one who taught me how to ponder over the beauty of life and science. He taught me how to read, write and enjoy literature.

A collage of my most treasured pictures with my Appachan

We had a tradition of by-hearting poems every summer. He used to explain those so very well that I would often end up crying by the end of his recitation. “Somebody’s Mother” was a favourite. We used to watch “Mahabharatham” ( a series based on one of India’s most prized work of literature) together, we used to enjoy every bit of it, from the twisted and interwoven plots to the language and delivery. He was also my Malayalam teacher. I distinctly remember the day he threw my book, or all the fights we had while trying to teach me.

We used to fight a lot. Looking back it seems all so comical. I once pulled the chair back when he was about to sit. I regretted that immediately and though I did all I could to help him later, the guilt lingered on. He used to beat me when I made mistakes. Then a while later he would come and console me and run his palms over it. No, I am not glorifying toxic positivity. I am thankful to him for making me who I am today. He moulded me into what I am today. Despite all our fights we made the best combo. Now that I think of it my childhood was oh so colourful thanks to him!

We used to stay up late at night, making charts, sketching out diagrams, cutting out print outs! Good lord he planted the seeds of all the things I love today. Today I am a student of design and not a day goes by where I don’t engage in either of those.

It might seem silly to most, how attached I am to him. But he is embedded into every bit of me.

Appachan and the Moonjappilli House

He used to love his garden, his pets and his walks to the market. He wanted to hand pick the produce we consumed. He used to tend to a healthy vegetable garden too. He had a short temper. But he had a kind heart. He used to wake up before anyone in the house. He used to tell me that the magpie sings in the morning when he opens the door. And that it’s so divine that I should wake up early to listen to it. He was the first to enter the kitchen. He helped my grandmother and mother a lot. Amma and him were the ultimate duo in the kitchen. He got me ready for school everyday. And in every chance he got , he nurtured my body, my brain, my soul and my mind. And if anything more is left then I am sure he played a part in that as well, just my inability to recollect.

He set up a mini lab for me at home, with test tubes and beakers and what not. He set up a mini library and even got me a register and seal made! He bought me books on birds, trees, planets and all things I enjoyed. He was my first and ultimate teacher. All that I know, all that I am, and all that intrigues me has his finger print on it. He was a proud teacher too. He had an infinite number of stories. Most of them were from his days as a teacher. He had loving students. They used to visit him and they loved him! They used to talk so highly of him. He enjoyed their visits too. He used to glow when he talked about his students.

I grew up with him. And I saw him leave. I saw him go deaf. I saw him wither. But his spirit remained untainted. He was diagnosed with multiple myeloma a few years ago. He fought well and recovered too. But with Covid, our hospital visits spaced out. The treatment plan just didn’t catch up or get a chance to be updated. He died three months ago. I still haven’t come to terms with it. This long ass message is perhaps a futile attempt I am making. I am trying to encapsulate all my guilt and tears and memories and happiness into words.

Towards the end he used to keep watching these few films on repeat. Subsequently even our neighborhood cats are now fluent with all the dialogues. I used to get angry when he used to ask me to print out the lyrics of songs and lines of poems for him. But now I am glad that I did. He used to sing them aloud. It used to make us smile. He was very peculiar about the plate he ate in, the spoon he used and the single drop of ketchup that he just had to have. He had tons of stories around them too.

Today he is not with me anymore. But each time I see ‘Aramthamburan’ ( a famous Malayalam movie) or hear ‘Kayalarikathu’ (a famous Malayalam song), I see him smile. Each time I hear the magpie or step out to the garden, I see him smile. Each time I write or sketch, I see him smile. I can’t forget him. It’s been months and I still see him. He frequents my dreams. Maybe this is what immortality is. He lives in me now. It hurts, but every inch of me has his imprint on it. And today I think I am carrying a bit of him with me till the end of my days.

I know I won’t stop missing him. I can’t, he is just too much of a part of me that I just can’t.

I have had a hard time with separation. Be it death or simple old homesickness. What has often helped at times is the little part of all that’s lost that I keep within me. Those tiny parts that I make a part of me.

That has always been my strategy, to imbibe the memories and learnings so very deep into me, that it becomes a part of me. It thus becomes immortal to me, or at least I lend to it my lifespan for it to tag along. This has helped me in my troubles with separation. After all, this way I take what I lost and I make it mine.

How Amma made him a part of her

I remember how my mother kept crying for days after he left us. I would say she was the worst hit among us. I really don’t think I know enough to comment on their relationship. They were in each other’s lives years before I was even in the picture. However, what’s interesting to me is how my mother dealt with grief. She took up gardening.

Spending Sunday evenings in the garden, pruning and planting was a ritualistic act in the Moonjappilli house. Appa, Appacha and I would toil in the soil, while Ammamma (my grandmother) and Amma would turn the kitchen into a lab, stirring up healthy experimental concoctions of vegetable and fruit juices for us to guzzle on later. Appachan was the in-charge of our esteemed garden for years. And after his demise, my mother saw it fit to take up the baton herself. For the first time she took it upon herself to buy a few plants. Something she has never done or even dreamt of even considering. She was perhaps the least interested in plants out of all of us. And today, she has even found a corner where she has rounded up all the plants she liked and has made it hers.

Appachan’s demise took a toll on all the people of the house, including the maids and the help we have. We all grieved in our own ways, but now when I look at it, I can see how all of us in one manner or the other, took up a part of him and made it ours. Like the division of all things material following a death, all those intangible qualities and traditions too ended up being split and taken up by different individuals. Today parts of him live in parts of us. The things he used to do are now done by others. The things he taught continue to be practiced and passed on. He, in all senses of the word has become immortal to us. Each of us have found our ways of keeping him alive, our own individualistic ways of celebrating him.

I will always cherish the parts of Appachan in me (which would more or less be in all of me). But with all things being said and done, I sure hope that I can someday bid him a proper goodbye.

I don’t know if he can see me now, hell, I don’t know what lies beyond death! But yes, I may have my hopes.

Nonetheless, I hope I will be able to live up to his legacy someday.

Loving you still,

Harry