This was written as an email to my family, a week after my mother left us in March 2017, and reproduced here as originally written.
Last week, I wrote on my Facebook status as I boarded the flight to India, Amma belongs to the ages. She passed away on the morning of March 2, 2017 – leaving behind a legacy almost too rich and full to be described easily, or captured with mere words.
Sampoornam was the third child and second daughter born in 1931 to Panchapakesan and Chellammal in Madurai. At birth, we are told, someone referred to her as the ‘Bangala Rani’ – because she was the very first child to be born in the palatial new home that had been built by her maternal grandfather, A.Lakshminarayanan of Madurai. This grand ‘Bangala’ – stylishly named ‘Laxmi Nivas’, would continue to be a place of significance for her – not only was Amma married here, but she also gave birth to three of her seven children in this grand residence.
I don’t remember Amma describing her childhood in very great detail – it must have been a blur, with frequent trips between Palghat and Madurai. Her childhood was probably most shaped by the person referred to as ‘Athai’ – actually, her grand-aunt, who was widowed early, and then spent the rest of her life with Amma’s family. Amma would fondly remember that her own mother, Chella Periamma, would prefer, at the slightest pretext, to make extended visits to Madurai to be with her sisters – but in the manner in which extended families functioned then, this was normal. But in those formative years, she must have learnt and absorbed the tough streak of practicality – the ‘get-up-and-get-it-done’ attitude towards all of life’s chores – from Athai.
A frequently retold story – which I heard from Amma even as recently as two months back, was about how she was almost adopted by Abboy Mama and Mangalam mami – her maternal uncle, who was childless. She recalled that she was taken from Palghat to Madurai when she was a young girl and even lived with them for a few days. Soon, however, she felt very homesick and decided that she wanted to go home. We would tease Amma then – of how she lost her chance to possibly inherit an entire fortune that would be left behind by AL.
Amma grew up in the shadow of the ‘Bangala’ – the rich lifestyle of her mother’s father, with the yearly trips in the summer to the hills of Kodaikanal, that she described fondly. How the entire family would assemble in Madurai and prepare for the summer vacation, the chatter and bustle of the many cousins and aunts and uncles who would all travel together in their exclusive bus, which was, of course, preceded by the grand Impala car in which the patriarch, AL would travel in solitary splendor. How, as they arrived in the Kodaikanal house, they would compete to grab the rugs and sweaters that would be stored in the boxes there. The summers spent plucking and eating the plums from the gardens and the trips to the lake and the paddle boats that were the major attraction.
Even in her own home, in Palghat, she lived in relative comfort. Her father was a judge, occasionally posted in nearby towns in Kerala, but she spent most of her school years in Palghat. The stories I loved the most of those years are of her vivid description of the small-town life of Kalpathi – the street that was a village by itself, the temple that was the center of village life, and the neighborhood of friends and relatives that were an extended family that were a constant presence in their lives. Amma talked about attending the music concerts that would be held in the temple, sparking her early interest in Carnatic music, as a listener, that stayed with her throughout her long life.
She remembers that when her marriage was arranged, at age 18, with Appa, she was initially very reluctant to agree. Her father was already ill and bedridden after a stroke, and she wanted to stay with him and nurse him back to health, and perhaps continue her studies and go to college. She was persuaded, however, by her father – but as she told us about it many times, I always wondered how she must have felt. She would not have known Appa but would have known the family. The families were intimately connected – Amma’s chithi (aunt) was married to Appa’s chittappa (uncle) – and they bore the illustrious name and lineage of Calcutta Ramachandran, who had, in his time, been as famous a lawyer as AL in Madurai. But Appa’s family by then was in straightened circumstances, except for the promise of it being an ‘educated’ family. Amma described the situation in much simpler terms – she approached it with her simple good faith, believing that it would all turn out well – in later years, she seemed more bemused than anything else, wondering how she had so easily adapted to that next phase of her life.
Amma and Appa were married on February 3, 1949 – in Laxmi Nivas, the Bangala – she showed us the very spot where the ceremony was held, many years later when we visited Madurai. The palatial house is now a hospital – but much of the interior remains as it was then – and she pointed with pride to the grand stairway leading up to the huge main hall where the marriage was held – which is now a series of curtained-off partitions for patients!
It was from this life of relative comfort that Amma was transported to an entirely different set of circumstances. She moved to Simla – the 3-day journey by train must have felt like a voyage to a different country. Appa and Amma lived in Simla for the next seven years – and Amma always remembered and reminisced about her time there with a nostalgic smile on her face. The life must have been hard – they initially lived in a very cramped, small apartment and Amma had to learn to cook on a slow-burning charcoal stove that she had never used before. Warm clothing in the form of sweaters and coats were expensive, and they had to make do with hand-me-downs and second hand gloves and caps. Appa’s salary in the Department of Insurance was probably barely adequate – but a significant portion of it was earmarked to support his parents and younger brothers and sister back in Madras.
Amma described her life in Simla, however, in a way that was her hallmark – in simple terms, this was life, and you did everything that you needed to do. Her tough streak of practicality would have helped her to simply adapt – and she did it well. She made friends there who were companions for the rest of her life, while also starting her own family. Her first three children were born when they lived in SImla – and it must have been a constant bustle of activity, compounded by the long distance from home – for every child’s birth, she would make the long journey home by train, to give birth in the same maternity room that she had been born in, in the Bangala in Madurai. I remember her talking about Appa’s long hours at work, how she would sometimes help him by transcribing whole chapters from an actuarial text book that was too expensive to be bought.
Perhaps the hardest phase in their lives was the next period, the initial years in Bombay, where they moved in 1956. The big city was unforgiving in its demands – the small apartment in Goodwill Assurance building in Mahim would have been filled to capacity for a family with seven children, and the pressures of also having to help in the maintenance of Appa’s parents household in Madras would have made it more difficult. For a few years, Amma seemed to be constantly traveling – spending part of the year with Shyamala, Sridhar and Chandar who went to school in Madras, and with Kala, Mala, Latha and me as we came along becoming part of the entourage. Much later, I asked Amma, about how tough it was – and she seemed to recollect with a sense of bemused wonder, that it must have been a tough life, but that she didn’t think about it at that time in that way. There was work to be done, and she did it – cooking, caring for all of us, and making the best of what she had. Most, or all of the clothes we ever wore as children, including our school uniforms were stitched by her – a talent she then passed on to Kala and Mala.
At the end of the ‘60’s, we moved to Thanjavur – where again, she seemed to enjoy the perks and privileges of the kind of life she had lived as a girl. The small-town atmosphere, the large house and household help that we were able to afford was, I think, something both Appa and Amma enjoyed. However, when we moved back to Bombay, all of that had to be foregone – but as all of us grew older, life did become easier for Appa and Amma. I think this must have been a period when Amma could most enjoy some of the pleasures of life – from the mid-70’s until 1984. As they became grandparents multiple times. They would have dared to dream of retirement, that perhaps would be a truly peaceful respite from the constant toil of the great enterprise of building and caring for the family.
In 1984, when Appa had the debilitating stroke that forced him into premature retirement, and that left him disabled – that was when Amma’s legendary skills at practical management were put to the greatest test. Amma handled the next 20 years with the same stubborn practicality and resilience that had always been her hallmark. Of course, she never gave up her faith in the possibility of a miraculous cure for Appa – but if that didn’t happen, she never allowed that disappointment to affect their ability to continue living their lives in as normal ways as possible. Amma did express some regret that their well-deserved retirement turned out to be less optimal than they had hoped for – but she hardly allowed that to affect her. They traveled regularly, visiting the US and Kenya, and moved from Bombay to Madras, and then to Coimbatore. Those moves were always initiated by Amma – and even if all of us objected, she would wear us down with stubborn insistence – brooking no doubts about her ability to handle any adverse circumstances that we would imagine for her.
In her final chapter – after Appa’s passing, Amma continued with the same gusto and verve as she settled down back in Madras. Even during this time, she continued to constantly experiment with her living arrangements, occasionally moving between Madras and Coimbatore, and even gamely agreeing to attempt a stint in Delhi, seeking new experiences. Her occasional health issues were mere blips in the routine – and she bounced back from each of the many surgical procedures, always ready to get back to her routine, doing what was needed.
In this long, full, rich life that Amma lived – there were a few constant themes. The primary feature was of course, what I have referred to above – the tough streak of practical common sense and ability to focus on the tasks of the here-and-now – equally enthusiastic about the daily chores of maintaining a household as she was about doing all that was needed for special occasions – the weddings, festivals and spiritual and religious observances that were a part of her life.
Next – her legendary ability to make ‘connections’ – what many have called her networking skills, long before the term became common. She had a sharp memory for names and faces, and an amazing ability to probe and prod people that she came in contact with, until she was able to find some connection – a way to relate to that person, either by a shared familial relationship, or some common acquaintance. Once established, that connection became the basis, not just for more connections, but as a useful resource for anything from match-making to finding a solution to a household problem. Whether it was finding a contact in a strange city that someone in the family was traveling to, or finding a maid or cook or nurse for someone in need, or finding a match for a suitable bride or groom – Amma had the ability to call up, at will, the names and ways to contact them, sometimes across the world.
Another aspect of her life – her creative pursuits in crochet, embroidery and knitting perhaps began out of necessity – all of her children have worn dresses and sweaters made by her. Although she may have indulged herself by creating works purely for display, much of what she made had a severely practical purpose, and she constantly looked for opportunities to make them – even a couple of months before the end, her last project was to make a teddy bear for her great-granddaughter. Almost never did she start a project and leave it undone – or half-done. Every one of her projects was quickly done and finished. Her interests in other art forms – primarily Carnatic music, of which she was a very discerning fan, but also of drama and movies – were always pursued with vigor – no effort was too great to attend a music concert if it was possible to do so. Listening to Carnatic music wasn’t done casually – she and Appa would compete earlier to be the first to recognize the ragam of a song, and while she was exposed to the great classical singers in her youth, she would seek out and appreciate the younger generation of singers as she grew older.
Throughout her life – even as she got to work in anything that needed to be done in her day-to-day life, she was also always ready to try something new. Especially during Appa’s years in disability – and even before and after that – she was always ready to give anything she heard about a try – whether it was Reiki, acupuncture or her great passion in the last years of her life, Alpha meditation. With her stubborn streak of practicality, her faith in these wasn’t blind – if it didn’t work, it would be abandoned – and if it did work for her, she would go to great lengths to learn about it and practice it.
A great part of her life was spent in the orthodox practices of spirituality and religious observances that she had grown up with – and she worked on those with an interest and passion that few others could match. She adopted much of Appa’s spiritual and religious practices, supported him in their observances, and then made them her own. The annual festivals, the auspicious days, other occasional prayers and homams and poojais – they were all planned for and observed with military precision. They provided the background music to the symphony of life that she made us all a part of, and we happily participated in that chorus. Amma made herself the center around whom all of us revolved – and as we contemplate a future without that center – we have to tell ourselves that it still exists. We will still continue to measure ourselves and where we live by how far we are from that center – if not physically, then in spirit.