There's nothing about today I call out of the ordinary. Really. I mean, I was at college, bugged Professor Sharma to the point of him trying to sing (???), went for a movie with the boys and Rashmi. And got back home to do nothing.
Yet there's this unnerving sense of satisfaction of having spent the day this way. It's getting to my nerves, but the feeling that I'm officially an adult's begun to settle in. I'm beginning to feel more independant of all things my head previously shied off. I've begun to learn where to draw the lines. my head seems to be full of thing to do, something that's so totally new to me.
I had my 18th birthday, by the way, last Monday. And today's a month since my granddad passed away. Hence a month since my last entry. I feel weird thinking about it. So much has changed in the family since he's gone, you know. I don't feel like going to the house any more. there're times when everyone simply shuts up, something like what people do for blast victims. Dad's not taking it in the best way either. I don't think he's had a good night's sleep for the past month. He was the only one at the hospital when Acchappa you-know-what'd. I can't use the other words, they're like, too harsh for my Acchappa.
My cousin had just landed at Thrissur that day, the one Acchppan was closest to. I wonder what he's like. One thing I know for sure is that he won't get the full impact of it ever, since he hasn't seen Acchappa being taken away. He was alone there. If there's anything that went against Acchappan's last wishes, which he had ironically listed a week before he you-know-what'd, it was Ashwin's absence. But it was too sudden you know. Dad didn't even epect something like that to happen. Acchappan actually asked Accha to go home, he was feeling so good. The previous day I'd been to his place, and I'd mentioned how normal he looked. He's given that old man's chuckle at 'normal'. Just when he entered the door, with the same sling bag. Later I'd got frustrated at the weird conversations people seemed to strike with walls in the living room and I'd said to him, "Acchappan, you've got a crazy family". He'd laughed for ten minutes after that. Always found something to laugh at. And once he started, he'd never stop.
He was as senile as anyone. Like he beat his own pawn using the opponent's queen in chess a few years back. It took him five minutes to hit a coin in carrom, at the age of 74! Ancient fellow, seriously.
He'd pile the cupboards on Fridays, just before I came to stay. Chaklis, cakes, pedhas, biscuits. His only granddaughter never ever knew what hunger was. Stuffed me to the core.
He'd always have all information we could want. Us grandkids, we'd never have touched our college prospectus', this man would've read them inside out. He also had those typical stories to tell. Like 'Lion and the Hare', my all-time favourite.
I'm missing the man who started the family I was born into. The man who moved from Kerala to Mumbai, with a wife 13 years younger, and two sons, who had a daughter when he lived in a chawl later, who served the RBI and IDBI for all his years, who laughed with all his heart, and never hurt anyone. The man with the twinkle in his cataracted eyes who's blood flows in my veins.
and all those who cared for him and who he cared for.