This is my grandmother’s story. We belong to a Christian family in Kerala, India.

When M.Thomakutty met N.Kunjanam, he finally consented to get married.

Thomakutty was my Appachen (grandfather) and Kunjanam my Ammachy (grandmother).

The initial plan was for Appachen to marry his business partner’s daughter. That fell through. Whatever Thomakutty was looking for in his bride, he found it in Kunjanam.

He was 21, she a tender 14.

Appachen's father had died when he was 14. So Appachen had discontinued his studies and taken over the family business. Though he would go on to be a very successful businessman, it would always be a source of sorrow for him that he couldn’t complete his studies. In compensation, he would ensure that his children were all well-educated. His sons became an MBA graduate, an engineer, a lawyer and a doctor. My aunts were all sent to college before marriage, an anomaly in those times.

Ammachy’s mother-in-law, who was a typical autocratic Indian mother-in-law refused to let her study further, though her school teachers came home to ask permission for this bright student to continue her studies. Ammachy was a whiz with numbers, a talent that I would have loved to inherit but didn’t.

At 16, Ammachy was a mother.

She went on to have 6 more children. 4 strapping sons who towered above their dad and 3 daughters. My dad’s and uncles' heights came from Ammachy’s side. Her brothers were all 6 footers.

Gentle and unassuming, Ammachy was a repository of traditional recipes.

Pork and kaya (raw banana), omelette curry, chakka ada (jackfruit sweet delicacy), kumbil appam (jackfruit cone cakes), muthira (horse gram) curry, meen curry with kodampuli (fish with Malabar Tamarind) and raw mango, beef cutlets, idichakka (tender jackfruit), kadachakka (breadfruit), chakka kuru (jackfruit seeds) upperi (vegetables dish), kuzhalappam (savory rice tubes), achappam (rose cookies), uppilitta manga (raw mangoes in brine), mampazha pulishery (ripe mango curry), kinnathappam (steamed sweet rice cakes), kozhukkatta (sweet rice flour dumpling).

The jackfruit, breadfruit, and kodampuli would be from our trees as also papaya, guava, custard apple, mango, two types of chambakka (rose apple), irumban puli (bilimbi) and luvika (Indian coffee plum).

Growing up, I didn’t appreciate any of it. I wanted tandoori chicken and burgers and what not.

The minute I left home though, they were all that I wanted.

Anybody who came home could testify to Ammachy’s ability to make you feel welcome.

Used to feeding a huge brood, her kitchen was always open to everyone. Though usually on the quieter side, she was effusive and welcoming to guests, ensuring they felt at home.

Even if Ammachy wasn’t going out, she would always dress in a spotless white, ironed chatta (blouse) and mundu (waistcloth).

If stepping out, a pretty white, handworked kavani (shawl) would be attached with a brooch.

Easy to get along with, she got on well with everyone, from her difficult mother-in-law, to her sisters-in-law and in time, her daughters-in-law. Appachen’s sister, amayi (father’s sister), spent her last days being cared for by Ammachy. Her own children refused to take responsibility.

Though traditional as can be, when her grandchildren decided to choose their own mates, she welcomed them all, irrespective of religion or language.

Appachen, a true businessman, was a martinet. When his workers needed someone to plead their cause, it was to Ammachy that they came.

By the time, we, her youngest son’s children were born, Ammachy was already old.

My other grandmother was younger and stricter, this one, who had already seen it all multiple times over, pretty much let me run wild. But if I fell sick, she was quick to soothe and watch to ensure I was eating properly.

There’s a certain security that envelopes you when you go to sleep beside a grandmother. You just grow up better.

Lest all of this makes you think Ammachy was a saint, here is what my mother once said about her, “Amma (mother) remembers only the money that she has to get, not the money that she owes others.”

It was considered unseemly for women from Kerala Christian families to drink in front of everyone, so Ammachy would gulp down her tipple in the privacy of the kitchen.

Like so many people in India, Ammachy had a preference for fair skin. She herself was fair. When people said I resemble her, she was not pleased. I am dusky, you see. I take after my father and not my fair-as-milk mother. But Ammachy did take comfort in this,” So what if she is dark, that dimpled smile of hers more than makes up for it.”

Ammachy’s last years were marred by her sons fighting over the money Appachen had worked so hard for. Generational wealth rarely brings out the best in people.

Ammachy died at 81, with the beginnings of liver cancer. I was 16, then. Here is the poem I wrote for her:

Soft hands which soothe an aching part,

A gentle voice that’s ever mild,

Beautiful wrinkled skin you adore,

And eyes that rest on you with love.

This sums up the best-loved person on earth,

That wonderful being – my granny.

Hymns sung late into the night,

Rock you gently on the train to sleep,

Her merry accounts of life of yore,

Make you want to hear some more.

A brief illness, a two-week period,

And she’s gone from you for ever and ever.

You strain to hear the halting footsteps,

To see the spotlessly white-swathed figure,

To hear the sweet old voice of yore,

To feel her smooth your hair once more…

Ammachy was not an exceptional person. She had all the prejudices and biases that you could expect in a person living in those times. But she was also generous and kind. I remember a woman and her little daughter coming to the front door and asking for food. They were asked to go around to the back of the house, where they were served with as much rice and curry as they could eat. When people say I look like her, it comforts me. Ammachy lives through and in me.

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