<p>Pattimma, as I called my maternal grandmother, was an old woman like many of her generation, but to me she was extraordinary. She has influenced me throughout my life. She spent her early years in Kerala and moved to Tamil Nadu after marriage. Though she left Kerala, the distinctive accent never left her. Her conversations were always sprinkled with Kerala-style Mamizh (Malayalam+Tamizh) or Manglish (Malayalam+English). </p>.<p>Pattimma was a treasure trove of stories. She spoke of her father’s incorruptible ways as a man with judicial powers; of her mother’s pilgrimage to Badrinath in old age, cooking for herself throughout the journey and covering much of the final ascent on foot; and of her devout younger brother, who, afflicted with a strange eye disease, spent a night praying at the Chottanikkara Bhagavathy temple and woke up completely cured. From these stories, my young mind formed vivid images of honesty, mental strength and devotion.</p>.<p>If we, her grandchildren, have grown up with a strong moral compass, it is certainly because of her. Nothing was preached; the goodness was simply woven into her stories -- the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, Dhruva’s courage in adversity, Prahlada's conviction, the tale of Harischandra and so on – all of which she knew by heart. The intensity of her narration made them feel less like stories and more like lived truths about the triumph of good over evil.</p>.<p>Once, as a little boy, I put some prasadam in my mouth before it was offered to God. Before swallowing, I realised my mistake and showed Pattimma. She simply said, “Spit it out; it is okay.” To me, that was the ultimate lesson in truthfulness. I doubt any other grandmother would have said that. The message was clear: be honest with yourself. </p>.<p>Her only regret was that she never saw Gandhiji in person, although he had visited her village. When he passed away, she fasted the entire day during the ceremonies, as if mourning a family member. Her other unfulfilled wish was to visit her native Kerala once more. Had she lived a little longer, I would have carried her on my shoulders to fulfil that desire. Alas, it was not to be.</p>.<p>When I got my first job, I sent her Rs 50 from my first salary by money order—now a relic—along with a note seeking her blessings. She was already very ill. I later learnt that she received it, read my message, held it gently in her hand for a moment, and then returned the money to my mother with a smile. That was her blessing. She passed away a few days later. </p>.<p>PS: My younger daughter carries Pattimma’s name, Komalavalli, as her second name.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
<p>Pattimma, as I called my maternal grandmother, was an old woman like many of her generation, but to me she was extraordinary. She has influenced me throughout my life. She spent her early years in Kerala and moved to Tamil Nadu after marriage. Though she left Kerala, the distinctive accent never left her. Her conversations were always sprinkled with Kerala-style Mamizh (Malayalam+Tamizh) or Manglish (Malayalam+English). </p>.<p>Pattimma was a treasure trove of stories. She spoke of her father’s incorruptible ways as a man with judicial powers; of her mother’s pilgrimage to Badrinath in old age, cooking for herself throughout the journey and covering much of the final ascent on foot; and of her devout younger brother, who, afflicted with a strange eye disease, spent a night praying at the Chottanikkara Bhagavathy temple and woke up completely cured. From these stories, my young mind formed vivid images of honesty, mental strength and devotion.</p>.<p>If we, her grandchildren, have grown up with a strong moral compass, it is certainly because of her. Nothing was preached; the goodness was simply woven into her stories -- the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, Dhruva’s courage in adversity, Prahlada's conviction, the tale of Harischandra and so on – all of which she knew by heart. The intensity of her narration made them feel less like stories and more like lived truths about the triumph of good over evil.</p>.<p>Once, as a little boy, I put some prasadam in my mouth before it was offered to God. Before swallowing, I realised my mistake and showed Pattimma. She simply said, “Spit it out; it is okay.” To me, that was the ultimate lesson in truthfulness. I doubt any other grandmother would have said that. The message was clear: be honest with yourself. </p>.<p>Her only regret was that she never saw Gandhiji in person, although he had visited her village. When he passed away, she fasted the entire day during the ceremonies, as if mourning a family member. Her other unfulfilled wish was to visit her native Kerala once more. Had she lived a little longer, I would have carried her on my shoulders to fulfil that desire. Alas, it was not to be.</p>.<p>When I got my first job, I sent her Rs 50 from my first salary by money order—now a relic—along with a note seeking her blessings. She was already very ill. I later learnt that she received it, read my message, held it gently in her hand for a moment, and then returned the money to my mother with a smile. That was her blessing. She passed away a few days later. </p>.<p>PS: My younger daughter carries Pattimma’s name, Komalavalli, as her second name.</p><p><em>Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.</em></p>
