Waltzing Through Heaven's Door

                                       

Velliyommi could never die. But she surprised me yesterday.

I'm searching for words and feelings as I plunge into vivid memories of my 88-year-old, forever whimsical grandmother. 

She'd been bedridden for a week and half. There is no word I detest more than "bedridden" when it comes to describing velliyommi, not because I'm the only one who does, but because she hated it even more, the very sound of it. She was the strong woman who made brisk evening walks through GCDA colony. She was the woman who loved food and colourful saris. She was the woman who could enjoy a dirty joke with me and laugh like a non-judgemental teenager. 

Last week at home, as I was changing her diapers with Appa, she held my hand with her right arm and waved the other, telling Appa in a hazy tone, "She's the one who can take care of me." And I quietly smiled, knowing how she always held a liking for me, partly because I took a lot after her, partly because I was a wishful thinker as her. In her late 80s, she was still up for adventures and all ears for scandalous stories. I don't know how someone gets to be so cheerful at an age where one's health and sanity begins to give way, but velliyommi sure was a peppy grandmother. Anyway, we changed her into fresh new clothes and I dabbed a little Yardley powder on her face and neck. Oh, how she loved the smell of it! "It's like breathing life into me," she'd say. Anyone who knows velliyommi knows her obsession with fragrances. Her space never looked like the characteristic old-lady room with syrup bottles, spittoons, half-stripped tablets, towels or porridge plates. No. Instead, her shelf, which she made sure was at arm's reach, was lined with her favourite lotions, talcum powder, a comb, a Bible, her glasses and dentures, and the table opposite her bed held tins of snacks, gloves, wipes and an extra bottle of water. She liked it that way. And so she had it that way. 

As a toddler, velliyommi would rock me to sleep with the song, "Kaattolivin shaakha aayirunna ennil nalla phalam nirappan...," a Malayalam song which I got so used to that I'd refuse to sleep without her singing it to me. Then I'd ask her to massage my legs or scratch them for imaginary mosquito bites. Last week, after trying in vain to sit her up, I sat by her side and told her she'd soon walk again. After all, she's braved three heart attacks and several falls, always stumbling yet getting back up again. So she had to walk again, very soon. She answered with a faint smile and told me, "All I want to do now is sleep." I moved her crutch and walker closer to the bed, both of which she had let go off a few days ago as if she was preparing for a longer sleep. 

"She's just lazy. She'll be alright very soon," I told my mother. 

Yesterday morning, she tried to say things. And it's still unclear what it was because her voice stopped coming through. But then she held her hands high and began clapping, and her lips moved vigorously. She was singing. A few minutes later, her hands tired. She then began tapping her hands on the sides of the bed. It sure must have been some good music she was hearing. 

Maybe it's true what they say. When the time comes to rejoin the universe's ensemble, we pick up our lutes and harps and strum to a tune only we can hear then. I'd like to think velliyommi is singing "Kaattolivin shaakha aayirunna ennil.." then and now. Only, I wish I could scratch her legs for a change. 

Rest in music, peace and love, velliyommi.