Cuckoo Achchie
A boy’s struggle with his mentally ill grandmother
“Cuckoo Achchie” by Denzil Jayasinghe recounts the author’s childhood experiences with his mentally ill grandmother, Achchie. Living with Achchie was tumultuous due to her unpredictable behaviour, fuelled by delusions and paranoia. While Denzil found solace in his immediate family and the contrastingly peaceful presence of his paternal grandmother, Achchie’s condition cast a long shadow over their lives. The epilogue reveals the tragic extent of Achchie’s illness, misdiagnosed for decades, and the profound impact it had on the author’s family. Ultimately, Denzil reflects on the experience as a reminder of the importance of mental health awareness and the enduring strength of family.
In our spacious home, where laughter and tears mingled equally, I, navigated the turbulent family dynamics. My existence was punctuated by the love of my parents, the camaraderie of my siblings, and the contrasting influences of my grandmothers. Yet, it was Achchie, my mother’s mother, who cast the longest shadow over our daily lives, her presence an unpredictable storm of noise and confusion.
Achchie, ensconced on the front porch, often declared to the neighbourhood, “I am the descendant of Apolonia; my heritage is not to be taken lightly!” Her proclamations, though grandiose, were tinged with the madness that clouded her mind. I sometimes wondered about this Apolonia, whose name seemed to echo the grandeur of Apollo’s celestial journeys in the sixties. In Achchie’s distorted reality, perhaps she saw herself as part of that illustrious narrative.
The roar of an aeroplane overhead occasionally drew Achchie’s attention skyward, prompting her to call out for her son, “John Chrysostom, descend from your lofty heights; your mother awaits you!” This John Chrysostom, a creation of her delusions, was none other than my Uncle John Christie, a man whose visits were as rare as they were brief. The thought of him parachuting from the plane was as comical as absurd.
Achchie’s mischievous spirit often led her to twist our names into playful taunts. She would address me as ‘Bernette,’ a playful jab at my middle name, Bernard, and similarly rename my siblings with whimsical monikers. Despite the humour in her words, there was a sharpness to them that could not be ignored.
Retreating to my hideaway, I would often overhear Achchie’s ramblings, her voice carrying tales of scandal and secrets best left untold. My heart went out to my mother, who bore the brunt of Achchie’s erratic behaviour with a grace and patience that seemed superhuman. Despite her tireless efforts to care for Achchie, gratitude was a currency seldom returned.
As evening approached, Achchie’s encounter with an imagined intruder on her bed would send shockwaves through our home. My sister and I, emerging from our hiding spot, would flee her fury, her threats of retribution ringing in our ears as we sought sanctuary in the garden.
The garden, a place of refuge and play, would momentarily become a battleground, with Achchie’s thrown stones and my flung sand marking our conflict. She dubbed me ‘Alien Boy,’ a testament to her belief in my otherworldly agility. With its innocent games and laughter, the street offered a brief escape from the chaos that Achchie brought into our lives — a chaos I yearned to leave behind.
Turning away from Achchie’s tirades, I sought refuge in my usual hideout. Her voice, laden with confusion and anger, filtered through the walls, speaking of holding a lamp for clandestine lovers. The meaning eluded me, but the malice in her tone was unmistakable. It pained me to think of my mother enduring this daily; her kindness met with scorn. She cared for Achchie tirelessly yet received only contempt in return. Achchie’s world revolved solely around her absent son, John Christie — or as she fancied him, John Chrysostom — leaving my mother to shoulder the burden alone.
The day Achchie mistook a harmless shadow for a ghost on her bed, my sister and I couldn’t contain our laughter as we fled from her room. Her threats of punishment from the mythical John Chrysostom were as empty as they were frequent. We escaped to the garden beyond her grasp.
Her anger manifested in a thrown rock, a gesture I had grown adept at avoiding. My return volley of sand was met with her frustrated attempts to catch me, her calls of “Alien Boy” a testament to her distorted view of me. I was swift, always just out of reach.
Joining the neighbourhood kids in their game, I found a momentary escape from Achchie’s chaos. Her harsh words and actions weighed heavily on me. Unlike the gentle grandmothers of my peers, Achchie was a source of constant distress. I kept the truth of her condition hidden from my friends, unwilling to share the reality of my home life.
In stark contrast stood Kadayamma, my paternal grandmother, whose love and care knew no bounds. She was a beacon of warmth, sharing stories, songs, and wisdom. Her presence was a comforting embrace, a shield against Achchie’s storms.
The weekend he brought my father’s return, a rare and cherished event. His presence was a balm to our household’s wounds. Even as Achchie lashed out, calling him ‘Yakarajan’ in her misguided fury, he responded with nothing but love and reassurance. His words were a reminder of the family’s unity and strength, even in the face of Achchie’s relentless accusations. In his calm demeanour, I found the fortitude to face another day.
Father’s monthly visits were the rare oases in the desert of our daily tumult. His arrival was always a balm, yet Achchie’s words, sharp as thorns, sought to pierce that solace. “Amma, we’re here together in this,” he’d say, his smile a shield against her barbs. “This home is ours, a sanctuary of our collective love.” But her retorts were venomous, branding him ‘Yakarajan’ — a demon in her twisted tales — accusing him of deceit and theft.
Achchie’s tirades didn’t end with Father. She writhed Kadayamma, my paternal grandmother, whose serenity was the antithesis of Achchie’s storm. “Thief!” she’d hiss, claiming Kadayamma had stolen her jewels. But Kadayamma, ever the embodiment of peace, would calmly refute the accusations, her words a soothing balm to Achchie’s fiery spirit.
Witnessing Achchie’s unjust accusations towards Kadayamma ignited a fury within me. I rushed to Kadayamma’s side, my embrace an assurance of her innocence. “Kadayamma, you’re the angel amidst this madness, not the witch Achchie claims,” I told her, my words a fortress against Achchie’s onslaught.
The weight of Achchie’s presence, her relentless negativity, was too heavy to bear. I longed for the warmth of my true family — my mother’s tender care, my father’s jovial spirit, the laughter of my siblings, and Kadayamma’s loving wisdom. In my heart, I yearned for a life untouched by Achchie’s shadow, a life where the light of my family’s love could shine unobstructed.
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Epilogue
Denzil’s childhood was marked by an unfortunate and tragic circumstance that haunted him for years. His maternal grandmother had spent nearly three decades in a mental asylum until Denzil’s mother, out of compassion and familial duty, decided to bring her into their home until permanent arrangements could be made.
Despite the challenges this presented to their young family, with Denzil being just ten years old, his sister six, and his younger brother a mere toddler, his mother persevered in caring for her sick mother. Denzil’s uncle, John Christie, had promised to take responsibility for their grandmother, but he never followed through, leaving his sister to shoulder the burden alone.
It was not long before tragedy struck. One day, while Denzil’s mother was caring for her sick mother, the elderly woman struck her with a stone, causing serious head injuries that required immediate medical attention. Denzil watched as the chaos unfolded before his eyes, helpless and confused.
Only a few years root cause of Denzil’s grandmother’s mental illness was finally discovered — a thyroid deficiency. But it was too late for her, as decades of institutionalisation had already taken its toll on her mind.
Throughout it all, Denzil’s mother continued to care for her mother despite the immense pressure and strain it put on her already burdened shoulders. As a young schoolboy, Denzil himself took on the responsibility of fetching medicines for his grandmother from the hospital, eager to help his mother and make up for the neglect of his uncle.
Looking back on those difficult years, Denzil couldn’t help but feel angry and frustrated at the injustice his grandmother had suffered. If only they had access to the mental health resources available today, perhaps her suffering could have been prevented.
As a novelist, I can’t help but be struck by the tragedy of Denzil’s story. The way mental illness was stigmatised and ignored, even the lack of resources to help, is a heartbreaking reminder of how far we’ve come and how much further we must go. And yet, amid all this pain and suffering, there is a glimmer of hope — the resilience and compassion of Denzil’s mother, who never gave up on her duty to care for her mother, even when it seemed impossible. It is a testament to the power of love and family, even in the face of the most difficult circumstances.
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