Dear Diary,
The last few days have been probably the worst in my life. I lost a very important person to me, my grandma (dad’s mother), whom I called Ammama. I heard on Monday, 10th June, that she died at 10:30 am that day. I didn’t want to cry then, but now, when I think of all the times she confided in me, hugged and kissed me, and about her unshakable love for me, I feel like weeping my eyes out. Tears well up in my eyes as I think of all the memories we made together. But I know she wouldn’t have wanted me to break down, that she would have wanted me to stay strong.
My other grandma, Ammachi, and I took the car out of my hometown, Karur (where I had been staying for the summer holidays) to Chennai, which is where I live at other times of the year. Ammama had been admitted to the hospital 3 days before her death because of heart failure.
We reached Chennai at 8:25 pm in the evening and as we stepped inside my house, Ammachi was met with a quivering hug by my sobbing Mum. I spotted Nana (my dad), and I pulled him into a bear-hug. Tears leaked out of his eyes as his shoulders shook with emotion. We held each other for a long time before my aunt steered me over to the glass fronted box where Ammama’s body was laid down.. She looked so peaceful, with a ghost of a smile on her face, as if she were asleep, I can’t help but think that death had done her a favour by stopping the suffering she had been facing from the age of sixty. I knew she looked weak, but inside, she was such a fighter.
The next day I took a quick shower, changed, and went down, unlike most days, when I usually dawdle about in my pyjamas. According to tradition, my dad had to shave his usual stubble and then head to the crematorium. Though my dad’s cousin, and other elders said that children were NOT allowed at the crematorium, my dad insisted that I stay with him. So they relented. My dad travelled in the Funeral Coach, but I had to travel in a separate car behind it, when we reached the crematorium, we did a pooja-my dad, tears pouring down the sides of his face, had to walk around three times, with a pot of water on his shoulder, while the priest poked holes into the sides of the pot, so that the water could spurt out. My dad’s grief-stricken face is one that I will never forget. For a dreadful second, I imagined myself in his place, facing the loss of my family. I truly understood the unbearable pain my dad was going through. I sobbed softly. Then my dad and I (holding his hand) walked to the long black stretch of metal that held the unmistakable stench of death that led to the burner. They laid Ammama down on it. My dad sobbed uncontrollably, and I held his hand very tight. And finally, the last thing we did to my dear Ammama was to touch her feet as a sort of prayer before my dad’s best friends and I turned him around toward the open door, out of the dark room that was poor Ammama’s final destination. I steered my dad, who was half blinded by tears down the steps. We travelled back to the house without anyone saying a word.
My family has been very strong and brave in facing this loss, Diary, especially my dad and my grandfather. But I don’t know if my family and I will ever be the same again.
Good night, Diary.
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