i was about five then and as soon as i used to step into her house, our village house, she would swing me in her arms. give me the biggest bear hug, and immediately take me to the garden to show me the newest buds in her rose shrubs. i would then run and peep into the well. not for any particular reason, but just a sense of reassurance i guess. and then she would point to the rest of the greenery around and show me her latest acquisitions, lillies, oliander, jasmine.

ammamma, much like her flowers, delicate, colourful, sweet smelling, beautiful passed away. ammamma, the one person i want to grow old like is no more. there will be no more silver hair to braid, no more new recipes to discuss, no more articles of mine to read out to her. i never imagined that she would leave such a huge void that no one could fill, but it's true. and you know what's killing me...i didn't meet her before she passed away. i missed her enchanting, soothing smile, i missed her tears, i missed holding her hand for one last time. i missed telling her that i will be ok.

for us and for the rest of the people she knew, she was ammamma. everbody young and old called her that. in a way that kinda upset me, coz the word had some special significance for me. i didn't want everyone to call her that. but i guess everybody else felt that way about her too.

i remember when we were young and the village house hadn't been sold out, we would go religiously every year in summer to her house. and return only after the rains had arrived in kerala. after the guided tour of the gardens, she would take me inside and we would sit on the swing. thatha would take us to the orchard and show us the jackfruit that was ready to be plucked and the mangoes that were hanging low.

thatha for us was a stately figure, a no nonsense man, whom we would admire and respect. ammamma on the other hand was the soft, good humoured, lady whom we simply loved. no strings attached.

i think the greattest lesson i learnt from her was that of patience. not once in my life of 21 years have i seen her losing her temper. and people much older than me tell me the same thing about her. even when thatha would lose his temper, she woudl remain quiet and talk to him only after he had calmed down.

she would tell us long stories about her life in Malaysia, where she lived in her childhood, about the way she would be taken on a bicycle to school. she didn't complete her schooling and was married off pretty early. but she made sure that her English schooling didn't go waste. she would read for hours and tell us the latest news. she was my greatest playmate in bhubaneshwar, where she lived with us for some time. i would throw tantrums, yell, act like a pest, but each time she would smile, i would just give in. we would go for long walks, talk about my problems with the strict school teacher, or my best friend who had just stopped talking to me, etc. evenings were spent sitting in the balcony rehearsing the Carnatic songs she had taught me. bedtime had the essential story tellign session, without which I would refuse to shut my eyes. i would listen to her with my mouth open wondering where she got all these stories from. these long never ending stories.

the day ammamma and thatha sold the village house i cried my heart out. "it's mine, i 'll take care of it." i yelled. once they moved to mumbai, we would go to meet them almost every weekend. diwali, rakhi, new years, and every other festival was spent with them. with ammamma's special rasam and sweets for the occassion.

all this while, parkinsons was making her weaker and weaker. her shivers grew from milder to stronger. there were times when she wouldn't be able to hold a cup. btu i kept telling myself that she would become better.

five years ago, thatha passed away. she held us close. me and my mum. we were her soulmates, her confidantes. my mum especially. she would call my mum her son. but her condition only grew worse after thatha's death. the last three years have been torturous her. all that was left of her was a skeletal frame. but her smile hadn't diminished, the silver hair was still there. and her mind was active as ever.

in her last few weeks with us, she had become thinner, her voice had become too low for us to hear, she was bedridden. she didnt have the strength to speak up, but her smile was still there. it was enchanting as ever, and quite frankly, she still looked like a million bucks with that smile. for me she will remain the epitome of beauty. she made the aging process look beautiful and taught us what it was to age gracefully. if there's anyone i want to be like when i grow old, it's her for sure.

when ammamma passed away on saturday at around 6 :15 pm (the same time and day that thatha had passed away five years ago), she left behind a whole lot of people who felt like orphans without her. the house was filled with people who came fromas far as pune immediately to see her for one last time.

as for me, i was in a corner still waiting for her to smile.