Sridhar Vembu’s Blog

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On Saturday, my grandmother (father’s mother) passed away, at the approximate age of 80. I had seen her 4 months ago, and she was in good health, and even cooked for me. Age finally overtook her.

I said approximate age of 80, because even she did not know when she was born, such was the poverty into which she was born that they never bothered to record or celebrate anything like a birthday. Her father, frustrated by the grinding povery and his inability to provide for his children, left home, and lived as an ascetic in some temple town somewhere (only to show up decades later), so she ended up in the care of her maternal uncle. She was a poor, beautiful girl of 14, when my grandfather, whose first wife died during childbirth, leaving him a girl to manage by himself, married her. He was 34 at that time. Her marriage at such a tender age, which would be illegal today, was commonplace at that time. My father was born when she was only 16 approximately, and that is how I calculated her age. Her earliest photograph was taken when she was probably 28, and she looks beautiful in that old photo.

In all she had 4 children, of which the first one died at childbirth and my father was the second child. My grandfather died when she was in her early forties, in 1967, a year before I was born. In the tradition of dutiful Hindu widow, she insisted on taking on a nun-like appearance, shaving her head and wearing the sandalwood-colored saree. By 1967, such customs were already disappearing, but she was stubborn that she wanted to observe the tradition, against protests from my father and his brothers.

Stubbornness is one key trait she probably passed on liberally to all her descendants, including myself. She had a matter-of-fact tone, and would speak her mind openly, never mind the consequence. She wanted to live and die in the village where he lived and died, and sure enough, she achieved her dream. Even well into her 70s, she was able to take care of herself, and only occasionally needed help. She just wasn’t willing to move to the city, which she mostly hated. My father renovated our old house in the village, primarily so she could spend her last remaining years there.

I was her first and her favorite grandson. I have fond memories of spending every summer in the village, during my entire schooling. Even in her 60s, she would insist on cooking the old-fashioned away, grinding everything by hand, without using any of the modern conveniences. It was good physical exercise, which was probably what kept her in good health all the way along. Only in the last 5-6 years, she relented and accepted a refrigerator and a gas stove. A television set was also installed, but I doubt she ever watched it.

While she was known for her temper, I was completely exempt from it. I would argue with her a lot, everything from why she observed those strict widowhood rituals, urging her to grow her hair long, and wear flowers, to why couldn’t the maid enter the kitchen. When I visited her a few months ago, in what proved to be the last time I would see her alive, she told me that she had relaxed her rules, and allowed the maid to cook for her. She told me I would be very happy to know she took my advice.

Even she went out in the way she would have liked. She informed people matter of factly on Friday night that she didn’t have much time left, so if they wanted to see her, they better hurry. No one took it very seriously. And she kept her word the next morning. I was going to leave for the US on Saturday night. When I got the news of her death on Saturday morning, I was torn between keeping my promise to my son to be back and my duty to my grandmother. Grandmother won. I wanted to pay my last respects and participate in her funeral, something she would have dearly loved. I was glad to be able to make it.

She went out in exactly the style she wanted, and her body was cremated in the exact place where she wanted, on the banks of the Kollidam river near my village. It was a breezy, cool late-afternoon, with a reddish sky providing the backdrop. I am going to miss her.