The Tin Man

Ok, I can't exactly write letters or stories in Tamil. But I know the script now. So I can read at a decent pace, and I can write anything you'd care to dictate. I'm working on the rest.

This is sort of a... I don't know how to put it, a 'gift' for my maternal grandparents. Especially my grandfather. I know he's always been a little disappointed that I've shown no interest in my mother tongue. Well, no more. I intend to write him a letter entirely in Tamil before the year has ended. I hope he'll be pleased, even if the language isn't as perfect as his. I can hardly hope to reach the level of a published author in three months. Right?

Anyway, since this project no longer needs my full attention any more, I have started on my next one. I have started studying Bengali. This one's in memory of my maternal grandmother. She and my mom and the rest of that branch of the family, all grew up in calcutta. So they still speak it at home. I know it won't be as smooth as learning Tamil, especially since I hardly know a handful of words in the language, but what with the hols coming up, I shall have plenty of free time, and the help of my mom and her sis, both of whom are fluent. So by january, I fully expect to have a working knowledge of written and spoken Bengali. I only wish paati was around to see it.

I feel like a child sometimes. I feel scared and hurt and insecure. But I can hardly behave like a child at my age. My grandmother always treated me like a child, and I don't mean in a condescending or patronising manner. It's just that... Oh i don't know! It was nice. You know how as a child you would run up to your parents or grandparents and proudly show off your drawing or writing. And then they'd dutifully ooh and aah over it. I feel like I need that sometimes.

I remember the day she passed away. It was 9 in the morning, and we were getting ready for my sister's birthday party. When the phone rang, my dad picked it up. And when I heard the curt 'ok' and the way he looked at my mom, I knew what had happened. My grandmother had sat down on the floor of the kitchen to take a break from cooking, and had quietly passed away. My mom fell apart. And the entire day was spent at their house, meeting relatives and watching my dad run around. The elders seemed to be watching me with some apprehension. I suppose they all expected me to burst into tears. But I didn't. I just stood there, quietly. I helped pass out coffee to the guests, I answered the phone, I did what the sastrigal told me, but I didn't cry.

As I stood there watching the chaos, I wondered in a detached way... what was wrong with me, that I couldn't shed a single tear. After all, my favorite person in the world had just passed away. I'd never see her again, never sit with her in the kitchen while she made lime juice and vengayam kozhambu and paruppu-usli for me, never help her pluck mangoes from the tree.

I came out of my thoughts then, when I realised I was being called. I was taken to the body, and an agarbaththi was pressed into my hand. They then turned me around and walked me towards the gate. I heard someone trying to explain. I was guiding her soul out of the house. Liberating her. As her eldest grandchild, it was my duty.

Then it occurred to me. What if I just refused to walk to the gate? What if I just went back to the kitchen and refused to move? She'd have to stay, and cook me dinner. I smiled at the idiocy of the thought as I reached up to wipe the sweat off my face. That's when i felt it. The tears.

I looked up. I had reached the gate.

Time to let her go.