Appa

This has been on my mind ever since he left. That day, when it was all over, when we knew nothing could bring him back, hundreds came home. Really, hundreds. Several of them we didn’t even know. Strangers, to the three of us, would come in and cry their hearts out. Weeks later, someone would call on his phone and speak to us; would tell us the story of how they had met and what a wonderful man he was. Months later, they would come home, sit with us, pray with us, and leave us with both joy and sadness. The joy of having known such a kind man, and the sadness of, well, the obvious. Even a year ago, a friend of his came home. He asked us if there was anything he could do. Anything. Anything for Dhana.

Dhana, which means the rich one, was also a very good looking man. Someone his little girls fell in love with long before they met their first love-s. He was everything they could have possibly wished for. He would carry them in the rain and launder their school uniforms. He would buy brown paper to wrap their silly little notebooks. He would go looking for a magic pencil and a blue ink-eraser and a pink chart paper late in the evening. He would hold his palm like a chair so his little girls’ little bottom can sit on it and she can giggle like an idiot. He would bring them hot vadais and egg bajjis every other evening and every other Saturday afternoon. He would even kill a snake that came looking for them. He would stock up provisions and make the world’s best tomato chutney and add cardamom to their evening tea. He would walk in the sun wearing slippers that had holes for soles. He would teach her mathematics and the other, all about the stock market. He would tell the world about their academic degrees, and not once would ask them to shut-up-and-get-married. He would relish all their badly cooked food and watch their antics with a smile. He would cycle all the way, and work, work and work. He worked all his life. For his little girls. Even after he stopped working, he worked.

During his time, he did not know the ways of the wicked. He knew little of the games people played. He didn’t know of many short cuts. He couldn’t spot betrayal or know an asshole when he sees one. And although he never said so, I think he genuinely, truly believed in the goodness of people. He was generous in the benefit of the doubt he gave. His skill and his intellect did not at any point find its way into cheap tricks or secretiveness. And he would forgive. Like it was the next best easy thing to do. The morning fight would simply, easily dissolve into an ‘Enne da kanna?’ in the evening. We would raise a hue and cry over a jerk of a friend that wronged him, and he would go like, “Let it go Ma, it’s ok”. Vittu thallu. Let it go.

Today, it all makes a little sense. The man that he was and the woman that I want to be. The fact that as I grew up watching him, I also wanted to be like him. That charisma and that smile and that instant liking people had of him. That unconditional love he offered. That life.

But because they want to fiercely protect, a few constantly remind me to not fall for people right away. To always, always hold back and take some time. To not open my heart unless the other does first. To not ever pedestalize someone. To never give them the gift of your love, when I kinda, sorta know they are going to be reckless with it. To always watch out. To not forgive that easily. To really, have some ego, dammit.

But then I think of Appa. And how hundreds came home that day. Really, hundreds. And how I had a made a choice to want to be like him, some 30 years ago.

PS: My sketch below is of Appa carrying a 4-year old me on a rainy day.