My first memories of periaathaa, as we call her, goes back to the time when I was about 6 years old. Guna, my eldest sister and I used to stay in our grandmother’s house in Opera Estate during the school holidays. Periaathaa used to pay a visit to aathaa’s one or two days of the week, in the mid-morning hours. Upon hearing from aathaa that periaathaa would be coming, I used to run to the gate, cling to it and look out for her. Sometimes I opened the gate, went close to the road and peered into the distance along Swan Lake Avenue. From afar, in a distance of about 100 metres, I would spot a small figure wrapped in white top approaching, her gait slow and with a slight limp, carrying a basketful of things. As she neared the house, we would exchange smiles and she would say, “ennadi aayaa?” to which I responded with a wider smile. I did not speak much to her, but seemed to like her very much. She was after all a figure I have heard much about but met very occasionally. I would follow her to the back of the house (she used to come round by the side of the house, which was a corner house, and not through the front door). It was a thrill to watch the big basket being emptied, usually carefully. All sorts of things came out of it – de-husked coconuts, mangoes both green and ripe, drumsticks, leafy vegetables, eggs – all from her yard. She would sit down and relax for a while. She would ask about my mother. Aathaa would serve her coffee and bread. They would then chat about things, family and so on. I would be hanging around with Guna there at the back of the house in that outdoor kitchen. Those were good Friday mornings for me. Everyone was happy and contented, engaged in a quiet but involved chat while aathaa prepared the day’s meal. Before leaving, she would hand Guna and I, a 2 dollar note. When I received the $2, I used to feel a slight pang within. I thought she would need the money and she should not part with it by giving it to me. But I could not express this in so many words and ended up keeping the money carefully somewhere. Once, she bent low to examine by toes, holding them, tugging at them, feeling them with her hands. Then she straightened and said, "People with this kind of toes will “rule the world”. I was half convinced and wished it would prove true.
Another significant memory I have of her, not long before she passed away, is of a time I spent in the little hut she lived. It appears that I was alone with her that day. There was no other there. The evening sun was setting and there was a gentle breeze about. She had washed her hair then and sat just outside the hut, on the cemented spot on her favourite cane chair that came with two arms. I was seated about a couple of metres away from her on the floor, playing. Every now and then I would steal a glance at her. The rays of the setting sun streamed through her curly hair that she was gently running her fingers through, attempting to dry them. The light breeze lifted the curls gently. Her care worn, wrinkled face that never flinched in the face of hard work or challenges as I have had heard from significant others in my life, wore a far off gaze. That image stays with me till this day. She was a magnanimous presence, regal and self-assured and re-assuring. She was my great-grand mother.
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