Echoes of Regret
A Grandson’s Reflection
In the alien landscape of Dubai, during the bloom of my early twenties, a profound realisation struck me. It was a duty I had neglected to attend to my grandmother, my Kadayamma. She had departed from this world when I was but nineteen, leaving behind a void that echoed with regret.
In her last days, she was a frail figure on her bed, each breath a battle, her life slowly ebbing away. My mother, her face a canvas of worry and fatigue, attended to her, assisting with the bedpans. And I, sharing and in slumber in the very same room, was oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
Death, in its cruel inevitability, was an abstract concept to me then, a notion I had yet to grasp fully. But it is only in its aftermath that one truly understands its devastating finality, often when it’s too late.
Upon entering the workforce at eighteen, I found myself in a coveted apprenticeship. With my first month’s labour, I bought a saree for my mother, a symbol of my newfound independence. Yet, in retrospect, I realised that my actions were not complete.
My Kadayamma, the silent guardian of my childhood, was equally deserving of such a gesture. She was the one who braved the elements each day, guiding me to school in the rickety confines of a bullock cart when I was but a child of five. As I grew older, our journey evolved, transitioning to the chaotic rhythm of buses and trains. She would wait in the school under a tree, a constant presence, until the school day concluded at 3 pm.
Her twilight years were consumed by my upbringing, her desires and needs eclipsed by my care. Yet, in the throes of my teenage rebellion, I failed to reciprocate her selfless devotion. I now grapple with the weight of this realisation, a stark reminder of the transience of time and the permanence of regret.
I was the chosen one among nine grandchildren. She fed me meals and lulled me to sleep with stories, privileges denied to my cousins and possibly siblings. Yet, I had no idea how fortunate I had been with her grace and time.
Kadayamma, a figure of stoic resilience, bore the weight of her existence with a silence as profound as it was enigmatic. As a young mother, she was thrust into the abyss of widowhood, left to navigate the labyrinth of life alone. Yet, she never voiced the hardships she endured, the trials of raising two boys single-handedly while managing the daily hard work of a shop she owned.
She stood as a beacon of strength and guidance for her younger brothers, her leadership inspiring admiration and respect. Yet, the magnitude of her sacrifice remained unspoken, her struggles concealed behind a veil of stoic silence.
Amid her own trials, Kadayamma took upon herself the care of a nephew, a child born of tragedy, his mother’s and her sister’s life extinguished at childbirth. The reasons for this selfless act of guardianship were never revealed to me. Perhaps an act of love or a sense of duty compelled her. Despite losing her husband, she never sold the properties and saved them for her two sons to inherit.
When she temporarily relocated to my uncle, her elder son’s residence, she would leave a series of inquiries behind. She entrusted these questions to my friends from school who resided near his home. Her words, interlaced with threads of maternal concern, would ask, “How is my son doing in my absence? Is he planning to visit me?” When I visited her, pedalling my bicycle, she would warmly welcome me, hold my hands, and offer food and drinks beyond my means to afford.
Yet, in her silence, Kadayamma’s actions spoke volumes, painting a portrait of a woman whose strength and resilience were as profound as the silence that shrouded her life’s narrative.
Whenever I remember Kadayamma, I think I should have cared for her more. My memories of her last days in her bed will never leave me. Why wasn’t I allowed to be at her bedside when she passed away? I should have held her hand, the very hand she washed my bum with every day when I was a kid.
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