Appupan.

It was a regular Monday evening. I lay lazily on my couch, scrolling through Instagram. It wasn't a busy beginning to the day; however, even the tiniest task took massive effort because I struggled with a mild neck sprain, a result of sleeping in a funny position the previous night. However, I was determined to give myself a good night's rest and go back to work with less weirdness in my neck. The evening was very usual; there wasn't anything particular about that day. It was slow. I began thinking about the tasks that I'd have to do the next day as soon as I got to work.

A few minutes past 7:30 PM, I received a call from my mother. It was a very unusual time to receive a call from my mother, considering that she'd be busy, and her time zone is an hour and a half behind mine. For a split second, my mind wandered. My heart sank, my knees weakened, as if it knew what was going to happen. I sat up straight and answered her call.

“Jishnu,” my mother mumbled. Her voice was heavy, cracked with emotion, and I knew what had happened. “Amma?” I asked, in anticipation. “Jishnu,” this time louder. “Appupan passed away.” I finally heard that statement after years of dread. The dread began long before my upper lips hid behind the dark mane I'd begun to grow, the dread began long before my voice began to resemble his, long before I bid goodbye to him at the Trivandrum International Airport before the sliding doors closed behind us—the dread that I remember accompanying a torturous ache in my throat as I tried to control the tears from bursting out. The dread that continued as I left him lying on the bed, as he smiled at me and murmured in a weak voice—“Happy & Safe Journey”—a few months ago.

After a few seconds of silence, I responded almost unfazed, overwhelmed with numbness—“Oh, when did he pass away?”

“I just got a call. Can you please come home?” Amma insisted.

“Okay Amma, I will come home,” I replied, as if I were a robot. There was no emotion in my voice, there was no commotion in my mind. There was peace and chaos silently coexisting at that moment. I immediately called Achan, my father, to decide what needed to be done afterwards. I insisted on booking flights immediately so that I could be there at the airport by the time Amma landed. Amma needed me there; she must be feeling weak—I thought. I brewed a cup of coffee an hour after I received the call and slowly walked around the room in circles. My mind, which was usually filled with thoughts and emotions, unusually felt numb. I sat on the sofa and murmured a couple of times—“Appupa?” I called out, and then felt stupid that I was calling out his name in an empty room. “Appupa?” I called again, hoping to hear him call me “Kanna” again, in that iconic handsome baritone. I'm sure I heard him respond feebly a couple of times in my mind. However, I remained unfazed. It was as if, as soon as I reached Aruvikkarai, a scenic hamlet hidden between the eclectic mix of Kerala–Tamil Nadu cultures, almost 50 kms away from Trivandrum, as if, as soon as I reached my hometown and walked into the room and called out “Appupa,” he'd respond. I knew that for certain, and I grappled onto that hope. It had happened before, and it would happen now.

Before I knew it, I was in a cab en route to Kempegowda Airport, immersed in a few songs that I'd associate with him. Before I knew it, I was outside the airport, earlier than required, holding a cup of unsweetened black coffee and sitting on a chair outside a cafe. The songs were louder than the announcements, the clinking and irritable sounds of trolleys being collected, and the regular dilemmas in the airport. One such song, the one that I associate with my Appupan so dearly, was a song from a classic 1988 Padmarajan movie, Moonam Pakkam, titled “Unarumee Gaanam.” I remember my mother introducing that song to me when I was a kid and then bursting into tears because certain scenes in that movie were an absolute visual representation of me and my grandfather—the way he carried me on his shoulders across the vast rubber farms, the way he drove me around on his bicycle with me prettily sitting on the baby seat he had just fixed onto it before my arrival. I was the one whom he loved the most, and for me, him. I recollect moments from the past when I listen to that song and burst into tears because I miss my grandfather and couldn't visit him as and when I liked.

I sat silently at the gate, awaiting my flight. I turned off the headphones and plugged my phone in to charge. “Appupa,” I kept whispering. Strangely, it might be my dramatic nerve twitching in sorrow, but looking back, I realize that I kept calling him for a while.

My mind had begun to get weary of the silence, and it had begun to ask questions for the first time since I heard about his passing. I had begun to hope that he had finally attained peace after lying on the bed for a year. It was almost 4 AM. I could visualize him waking up and making a tall mug of tea for himself—the 4 AM routine that he had crafted for himself after his voluntary retirement from the armed forces.

He'd shave his cheeks and watch the news for an hour while taking his own time drinking that tea. I had accompanied him on many such mornings, wherein he'd make tea for me too. I remembered him patiently waiting in front of an induction stove as the milk boiled, and he'd drop in some tea leaves and brew it well. It wasn't the greatest tea, but it was made with affection.

He was very protective of me, maybe more than his own children. He let me live my life; he'd never judge me. He was proud of me, and he never failed to show it. Upon my arrival in India, for the very first time, I wasn't satisfied with the tidiness of the hostel. He moved to Trivandrum overnight—for me—to ensure that I'd get comfortable with the environment in India.

When I got a perfect score in 10th grade, he took me to a nearby shop to get me Chicken Biriyani, knowing how much I love the dish.

When I had to eventually move to the hostel, I remember his eyes welling up for the very first time, as he tried to control it by looking away from me. I remember how he visited me the very next morning, through flooded roads and heavy rain, just to ensure that I was fine. He bought me red bananas and a few snacks for me to eat on that day. My teachers who witnessed it on that day recall it with tears, knowing how much he loved and cared for me.

When I was subtly mocked by the relatives around me for not knowing how to drive a bike, my grandfather bought a bike with his savings just so that I could learn how to drive.

When I received the gold medal in engineering, he proudly hung it in the hall for everyone to see.

When I had to leave for the UK for my master’s, his eyes welled up again. Little did I know, it would be the last time I saw my grandfather on his feet.

And then, two years later, I was on board to Trivandrum, to meet him for the last time, to give him the last kiss.

This is my attempt to immortalize him—his thoughts, memories, his voice, his style. I selfishly wish he's always with me, in me. Almost mirroring the heart-wrenching lyrics from the same song—

“Ennile enne kaanvu njaan ninnil,” the way how I thought my grandfather viewed me, and now he'd live forever in me.