An ode to my Abba

I too had a grandma; a strong noble lady; a maternal figure to look up to. A lady who brought up a brood of 8 kids almost single-handedly, the youngest of them just into teens when her husband (grandpa) died. She worked in the paddy fields, weaved coconut leaf mats and did odd jobs to feed her kids.

She did not stop short of selling off vessels, any articles of value or pawning jewels to give education to her youngest child. Even when her older children, some of them fully grown men by then frowned at her for wasting good money in educating this girl child, she stuck to her single minded mission.

Why the preference to this one child? Well she was the youngest and dearest to grandma’s heart and also the only one who had shown a keen interest in studies. While her siblings were content with going to school for the sake of it, this child desired to study and excel and grandma made it her mission to see that it happened.

Years went by and 6 of grandmas 8 children had moved away; the guys with their wives and children and the girls to their husbands houses. The youngest child had finished college and had started working in a tutorial as a tutor while pursuing a Masters course. The household situation had slightly improved with many sons and the daughter earning.

Grandma’s favourite child meanwhile became a lecturer in a college. Grandma had fulfilled her dream; got this child married, got the youngest of her grandkids.

Grandma left us for good one day, on one of these youngest grandchildren’s 17th birthday. There was nothing anybody could do about it but it left her youngest child and the unlucky grandchild heartbroken.

Not that the unlucky grandchild showed or expressed it. In fact this grandchild came under flak for having no emotions, in spite of being grandma’s favourite grandchild. Grandma’s youngest child chided her daughter, the unlucky grandchild for having been ungrateful for everything grandma had done for her and her mother. The sorrow and the resultant frustration had found a target!

But as the unlucky grandchild writes this blog today she has nothing but sorrow weighing her down. Every birthday is her secret mourning day; mourning for her dearest Abba. This day for no reason she has been overtaken by memories of Abba and the warmth associated with that word.

I dedicate this blog to my Abba and her memory.


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