Yugantham - That’s how I feel when I think of Acchan’s passing. Today marks the 16th day without him. It’s a huge change for us, mainly because our lives revolved around his routines. Many major decisions—like moving to Thrissur from the Vappala house, our return from Bangalore, staying isolated during COVID for an extended period, and even what to cook and eat for every meal—were based on his preferences.
As I sit down to write about him, I am overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his existence. Acchan lived to the age of 96, witnessing events that rewrote history. He was born during the Great Depression, a time when the world was in turmoil. In some of his books when he spoke about his childhood, he has mentioned how food grains were scarce and how he sometimes had to endure hunger during his school years. I had asked him to share his memories of August 15, 1947, the day India gained independence. He vividly recalled the procession in Thrissur Round. He was just 18 years old then. He lived through pivotal moments in global and national history: the World War, the Cold War, famines, the deep socio-economic inequalities in the society, rise of communism in Kerala, the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Green Revolution, liberalization in India, and even the pandemic that brought the modern world to its knees.
He experienced nearly a century of history, much of which most of us only know through books. And the best part? he didn’t just live through history—he chronicled it. He remembered every detail, right down to the dates. His passion for documenting these events was unparalleled, as he believed they marked the history of an era. Over his lifetime, he published around 60 books. Even in his advanced years, his passion for writing never faded. Perhaps he was compensating for the time in his youth when he was active in politics and unable to dedicate himself fully to the literary field.
From the time I’ve known him, Acchan was always in his room, immersed in reading and writing. We mostly saw him outside his room during meal times, where he would quietly finish his food before returning to his work. However, if anyone brought up a book or historical event, his enthusiasm was boundless. He could talk for hours, sharing not just knowledge but also his interpretations and viewpoints and we often ended up in a debate. Even during his time in the hospital, a mention of any of his books was enough to light up his face and prompt him to talk endlessly.
Another passion of his was food. He had a discerning palate, and winning his approval for a dish was no easy task. His rare nods of approval for a dish felt like awards for me and Chechi, a testament to the effort spent to meet his exacting standards—everything had to be just right, from the salt, spices, and gravy thickness to the water absorption and even the shape and size of the cut pieces. Now, in his absence, everything feels different. The routines that once defined our days have been disrupted. The meal times, once punctuated by his comments or thoughtful silences, feel incomplete.
I just thought of sharing the last video clip I took of him in the hospital, where he was talking about a book and some slokas in it, even mentioning the page numbers(probably in a delusional state.). Until the very end, his only concern was literature. Many times, I’ve felt that Acchan’s brilliance truly belonged to the world of literature. I often wondered if he might have been happier without the responsibilities of family life, devoting himself entirely to his craft. Yet, family was an inseparable part of his life, providing him with the support he needed to create.
Acchan’s passing marks the end of an era—he was a bridge between the past and the present, a living chronicle of history. As someone mentioned in a condolence message, his writings, values, and stories will live on...
Ref: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M._R._Chandrasekharan
No comments:
Post a Comment