My maternal grandmother used to tell me lots of stories about her past..what growing up was like and how she brought up all 7 of her children, practically by herself. She passed away last year, in August. A few months later, I wrote a story about her life, or at least what I know about her life. It was her birthday yesterday and I think it is appropriate that I share the story that I wrote because she was a wonderful woman and should be remembered. I have never met anyone else like her and if I was in her shoes, I don't think I could have made it like her.
83 YEARS
83 years. 83 years of going through life and this is where it is going to end. This is where I’ll be taking my last breath. I know it. Don’t ask me how, I just do. I am going to die here, surrounded by strangers. My last day, maybe even my last hour. I can’t say that I am really at all that sad though. It is time.
*
Let me start from the very beginning. I was born in quite a well-off family. My parents migrated from India to Penang just before I was born. I had two elder brothers and a younger sister. My dad was a businessman and my mother, like most of the ladies in the olden days, a homemaker. I was treated like a princess by everyone around me. I would go around bossing everyone, and people always seemed to listen to me, obey me. I felt that everyone around me loved me a lot, and would do things as I pleased. When I was ten, I told my parents that I didn’t want to study anymore and they let me stop schooling. Going to school wasn’t really that important a thing in the pre-war period; especially for a girl.
I was ten when my mother passed away. I felt like my whole world was about to fall apart. My father, who loved her very much, was shattered. In my opinion, since her death, he started dying, bit by bit. The fact that she died after suffering a long illness made it worse. The medical field was not advanced at that time, and all we could do was watch her die slowly, day by day. As the eldest daughter, I had to take over all mother’s duties at home. Cooking was my duty. I also had to make sure the house was clean and the clothes washed. We did have ‘servants’, but I had to make sure that they did their job properly since dad was always busy with his business. At the age of ten, I became a mother to my younger sister, caring for her, feeding her.
After my mother’s death, my sister became very attached to my father. Everyday, she would wait for him to come back from work before she eats her dinner. After that, she would sit on his lap and make him tell her stories until she fell asleep. Whenever my dad went on business trips (which would often last about two months), she will be asking me everyday, ‘when is dad coming back? Why is it taking him so long?’ I would tell her that dad will be back soon and that he would buy her lots of presents; and sure enough, every time he came back, he would bring tonnes of presents for her. My two brothers and I would get presents too, but it was obvious that my sister would get the most.
When I was 12, my dad went for a long business trip, the longest one ever. There were no telephones at that time, and we didn’t receive any letters from him as well. Nobody said it out loud, but many thought that he had met in an accident, a ship wreck maybe, and died. My sister was heart broken. When he wasn’t back after four months, my sister stopped eating. She said that she would only eat when he comes home. No amount of coaxing or scolding managed to get through to her. I felt so helpless; I would sit in the prayer room for hours each day, praying that dad would return and my sister would start eating. But my prayers weren’t answered. My sister grew thinner and thinner, fell sick and on a rainy Sunday morning, she passed away. In a way, I though it was better for her to die. I couldn’t stand seeing her suffering that way anymore, day in day out, always mumbling and calling out for dad.
Two months after sister passed away, dad returned home; there were some problems with his ship and it had taken him some time to get it repaired. After that, the rough weather did not allow him to sail. My eldest brother was the one who broke the news about my sister’s death to my dad. I can never forget the look he (my dad) had in his eyes. It was like his whole world had just been crushed. After that, his health started deteriorating. He never went on a business trip anymore. We moved to Tangkak, Johor. A year later, he married me off to a friend of his. My husband was 23 year’s older than me, but then it was a normal thing back then to get married to a guy much older than you. A few months after my wedding, dad passed away. Maybe he felt that his job has been done, getting me married.
*
Narayani, Satya and her daughter and Madhavan and his wife are here at the hospital. They help change my clothes and try talking to me. I am very tired though. I seem to drift in and out of consciousness. All I want to do is sleep. Satya tells me that my grand daughter is spending the night with me here. That’s all I remember before I fall asleep again.
*
My husband was a very nice guy. He treated me more like a kid than a wife. Our age difference must have been the contributing factor to this treatment. I did really love him though. I would clean the house and cook, and then wait for him to come home. He would tell me stories about what was going on at work and about the British, who were at their prime at that time, taking over the world bit by bit. Sometimes, I didn’t really understand what he was telling me, but it was always a pleasure to hear his voice. Sometimes he would bring back his friend, Sekharan, and they would sit and talk until late at night. During these days, I would be sitting alone in my room, waiting for Sekharan to go back, so I could spend time with my husband.
About a year after we got married, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. She was the sweetest looking thing with the smallest fingers and toes. She was perfect. I was, however, a 14 year old girl with a child. I didn’t know how to care for a child and didn’t have anyone to guide me. Somehow, with the help of my husband, I managed to learn how to feed my daughter and to clean her up. However, one day, I did the biggest mistake I ever did in my life- I fell asleep while feeding my daughter. I was woken up by my husband and to my horror, my child was not breathing anymore. What did I do? I killed my child! Only those who have been in my situation can really understand what I felt like. I just wanted to die then and there. My husband, ever understanding, never said an accusing word to me. He comforted me, he took care of me and he showered me with his love.
Nevertheless, I was inconsolable. I could not stop crying, could not stop blaming myself. I would cry myself to sleep, then wake up and start crying all over again. I didn’t eat for days and fell sick. My husband would stay up day and night, taking care of me. Whenever I opened my eyes, I would see him sitting next to me, holding my hand, comforting me. At that time, I loved him more than ever. With his love and care, I got better, but in my heart, there was an empty space. Even till now, sometimes, when I lie on my bed, I can feel my daughter playing with my feet. Maybe it is just a figment of my imagination, but the feeling is always there.
A few years went by, with me praying every single day for a child, to no avail. I felt like I have let my husband down. I even contemplated telling him to marry another, but never had the heart to do so- I loved him too much, I was not willing to share him with someone else. To me, it was God punishing me for killing my first born, and I can’t say I blame Him. Sometimes I feared that I have become impotent; maybe my husband had the same thoughts too, but never once had he even hinted so to me.
My life became a routine of waking up early in the morning, preparing breakfast and sending my husband off to work. Then I would proceed to cleaning the house and preparing lunch (and dinner) and sometimes even make cakes or biscuits for my husband. He really loved eating them, and for me, I would do anything to make him happy. Every now and then, he would be home late, due to some extra work that he had to complete, and each time this happens, I would worry about his safety. There were times that I was on the verge of tears because I was so sure that something had happened to him. I never shared my fears with him though; I didn’t want him to know how afraid I was for him.
The Japanese occupation was a torturous time. Everyone had such high hopes that the Japanese would bring new life to Malaya, but never had they been so wrong. People would tremble in their houses when the soldiers marched pass their house, any demand they (the Japanese soldiers) made was fulfilled without questions. Food was scarce, and I resorted to growing my own vegetables. Both my brothers were mysteriously killed during this period, which meant that I had no blood relatives left that I know off. If my parents had siblings, whether back in India or in Malaya, I did not know of them. My life now revolved only around my husband. He is all I had.
Three years later, our (the people of Malaya) prayers was answered. The British once again took over Malaya and they were received by the people with welcoming hands. It was like the British could do nothing wrong, they could never be as bad as the Japanese. Life went back to normal, as it was before the Japanese occupation. However, it was still hard to get food stuff and supplies, and those that were available were extremely expensive.
*
I wake up all of a sudden. I see another grand daughter of mine, Sheela, sitting by my bed. They don’t realize I am awake. Both my grand daughters are talking to each other. There is a commotion nearby. Looks like someone had passed away. I can’t seem to keep my eye open. I want to talk to my grand daughters, but I am just so tired. Maybe after I’ve had some rest I will feel better.
*
It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining brightly, and I had made my husband’s favorite dishes and even made some biscuits. As usual, I sat out on the porch, listening to the radio, waiting for him to come back home. As it was beginning to get dark, I started to worry, as usual. I tried to dismiss the feeling by telling myself that he must have just been caught up at work, but I could not comfort myself. I decided to go in the house since it was already late. Suddenly, I heard someone knocking on the door. Thinking it was my husband, I rushed to open the door.
It was Sekharan. I opened my mouth to tell him that my husband was not back yet, so he (Sekharan) would have to come back later, but the look on his face stopped me. He couldn’t look me in the eyes. I knew something wasn’t right. Fearing the worst, I didn’t even dare ask him what was wrong. It seemed like eternity before he looked up and told me that my husband had died. I didn’t want to believe him; I thought that he must be joking. I mean, how can it be? I saw him off this morning and he was fine! How could my husband die? How could he leave me all alone like this? Sekharan said that he had been murdered by some communist people and went on with a lengthy explanation on what had happened, but I wasn’t listening to him. My husband, the only person whom I had, had just died. I didn’t know what to do, and tears just burst out of me. In a while, my neighbors were at my home, trying to comfort me, but what can they say or do?
The funeral was held the next day. I still couldn’t believe that my husband, the man I depended on for so long, was gone. I walked around in a daze, barely registering the people, just blindly following orders while performing the funeral rites. Every now and then, I would glance at the door. I still felt that he was going to walk in the house at any moment, grinning from ear to ear, saying I was silly for falling for such a trick. I didn’t know what to do with my life anymore. Should I get a job? Should I continue staying there? Where else would I go? Should I just commit suicide and get it over with? But I knew the last one wasn’t an option at all, my husband always thought that I was a tough one, and I wouldn’t want to prove him wrong.
It was about a month after my husband passed away that I discovered I was pregnant. I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be happy or sad. The child that I have been praying for for ages is now growing inside of me, and yet, I am a widow. Isn’t God cruel for playing with my emotions this way?
A few days later, Sekharan came to visit me. He had been to check on me a few times since my husband’s death, so it didn’t strike me as odd. He did seem a little fidgety though. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and asked him straight out, “what’s wrong?” Imagine my surprise when he asked for my hand in marriage! Sekharan told me that my husband told him to take care of me if anything happened to him, and since he (Sekharan) himself is unmarried, he would like me to be his wife. According to Sekharan, both he and my husband had known for some times that the communist was a threat, but there was nothing they could do about it. It was either my husband or Sekharan who would have been killed.
I rejected his proposal. I just couldn’t bring myself to say yes. I was a widow, a pregnant widow at that. I couldn’t marry him. After some time, he left and came back the next day, and the day after that. And all that time, he was trying to get me to marry him. Finally, I relented. If this was what my husband wanted, then maybe it was the right thing to do. Our wedding was a small affair, in a nearby temple, and after that, I was officially Mrs. Sekharan. And thus, a new phase of life began for me.
My son, Krishnan was born few months after my wedding. I was rather afraid that my husband (Sekharan) would not get along very well with Krishnan, but I was pleasantly surprised. He cared for Krishnan like his own son. I felt very happy whenever I saw the both of them together. Although I do miss my first husband, I realized that life has to go on, and I tried my best to forget the past and concentrate on the present. A little less than a year later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, Vasantha.
*
“Ammuma (grandma), here, take these tablets. They are for you.” I sit up, swallow the tablets and a glass of water. I talk to my grand daughter a while. Sheela has gone home. I suddenly feel like vomiting and ask for a plastic bag. I throw up. It has been like this for a few days now. I can’t seem to keep anything down. Maybe that is why I am feeling so weak. I lie back down, tired. I close my eyes...
*
I was very happy with my life. My husband was a good man. He was an estate manager, so we were quite well off. We had a big bungalow, 2 cars and a few servants. All I had to do was cook and look after the children. The British left and Malaya attained its independence. It seemed like nothing could go wrong, although experience has thought me that anything can happen at anytime.
My husband and I had 7 children together – Krishnan, Vasantha, Narayani, Madhavan, Chandran, Shiyamala and Satya. We were one big, happy family. A friend of my husband’s, Ismail, was also very close with the children. Although he was about the same age as I, he would call me Amma (mother). He became part of my family, my adopted son, as I would tell anyone who asks. He was an Indian Muslim, but religion was never a barrier among us.
My husband and I always discussed about our future and about our children. My husband had relatives in India, and he wanted to get both my elder daughters married to his sister’s sons. It was a common practice among Indians at that time, and I agreed. Arrangements were made for us to go to India and for them to come to Malaya to visit each other. Things however, did not go on as planned.
It was May of 1961. A worker brought my husband back from work because he was not feeling well. We called the doctor, but a few hours later, my husband passed away. We were shocked! He was so young. No one knew what was wrong. I looked at my children. Krishnan was 11, the eldest, and Satya was only a 5 month old baby. How am I going to manage 7 children?
This time, I could not grieve properly for my husband. I was too busy consoling my children and caring for Satya. The poor girl would never know the love of a father. Once again, I am left alone, but this time I have 7 children depending on me. I had no one to turn to; no relatives to ask help from. Everyone we knew seemed to have suddenly disappeared. I guess not many people are willing to help a widow and her seven children.
Thankfully, Ismail was there. He became a father figure to my younger children, and an elder brother to the older ones. He cared for them, he fed them, he took them out, he played with them. My children became very attached to him. A few years later, I got him married to a nice, Muslim girl, but he was still part of our family. Ismail passed away about ten years ago. To me, it was a loss of a son and a good friend.
Fortunately, the estate let us keep the house we were living in. I still had some help with the housework, but most of it I now did myself with the help of my children. I sold off both our cars for the money. I started growing vegetables and rearing cows- I had to find some way to save money. How else would I put all my children through school? I am not going to allow any of them to drop out of school. When money ran out, I sold my jewels. My children may not have had proper clothes to wear, but education they had.
I struggled for about 10 years before my 2 elder children started working. After that, the money that they would give me helped me manage with our finance. All my children eventually completed high school (Shiyamala even entered university) and started working. That is one of my biggest accomplishments ever! It may seem simple when written down this way, but it was a very big struggle, not just for me, but for my children as well. I lost contact with my husband’s sisters, and the only help I had was from Ismail. Many times I have sat and cried (without the knowledge of my children) because I just didn’t know what to do anymore. But for their sake, I had to go on, had to find solutions for my problems.
*
I wake up and see my grandson. I guess he’s here to visit me. I feel very sleepy and couldn’t really talk to him. I go back to sleep and leave him talking to my grand daughter.
*
Once my children started getting married one by one and having their own families, I sold the house we were living in, in Tangkak and went to live with my children. Wherever a grandchild is born, I go to that house and take care of the grandchild. My children lived in different places in Malaysia and I used to travel north, south, east and west to visit and care for my grandchildren.
I can proudly say that I have taken care, fed and sang to every one of my grandchildren, all 22 of them. I made them their favorite food whenever they asked me to. I told them stories and listened to their stories. I did whatever I could do for them and I am proud of every one of them. Most of them are still studying, but some of them are working and 2 of them are married with children. Yes, I have 3 great grandchildren. However, I could not take care of my great grandchildren as I did my grandchildren; I was too old by then to do a lot of hard work.
*
I wake up feeling very hot. I tell my grand daughter and she removes my blanket. She talks to me a while and then tells me to get some rest, to go to sleep. I am still feeling hot and she starts fanning me with a magazine she has. I try to go back to sleep.
*
I went to India thrice in my life. I followed a tour twice and the other time, I went with Vasantha and her family. I love India. I love the temples there. I just love going around seeing new places. Every time I go there, I buy clothes for my daughters and granddaughters (I don’t know what to buy for the boys in the family). The last time I went to India, I slipped and fell and fractured my leg. It was ever since then that I have had trouble walking. I’ve always wanted to go back to India, but I guess I am too old now to go there and walk.
*
It’s very hot. I wake up and turn to the other side. I try to sleep, but sleep just doesn’t seem to want to come. I turn around again. I sit up. They are infusing blood for me, and the nurse keeps adjusting the tube. Seems like something is wrong with it. I try to sleep again. My grand daughter keeps asking me what is wrong. I tell her it is too hot.
*
People say the loss of a child is the worst loss of all. I had to endure not just the loss of two children, but also of a grandchild. My grandson passed away in 2002 and Shiyamala in 2004. I just cannot describe my feelings at that time. Sometimes I feel that God just can’t stop testing me. I have lost so many people in my life, and still, I keep losing my loved ones. Each time, my heart breaks. Why them? Why not me? These are the questions that keep running in my head.
*
My throat is dry. I ask my grand daughter for some water and she hands me some in a cup. I take a few sips, and after some time, vomit it out. I still feel hot. I turn to my left, and then to my right. I have a chest pain and I tell my grand daughter. She calls the nurse, who comes and adjusts my infusion tube. She asks me whether I still feel pain and I say no, I feel better. I try to sleep.
*
Lately, I have not been very well. I think it is the age. I have been going for regular check ups and taking quite a number of medicines. I don’t know if I am getting better. I stay with my Chandran most of the time, but sometimes with Narayani and sometimes with Sheela. Although I have diabetes, they sometimes buy me my favorite ice cream and ‘ice kacang’.
These past few days, I have not been able to eat properly. I keep vomiting. I don’t know why. I’ve lost my interest in most food; I just don’t have the appetite. 2 days ago, Satya had a party in her house and I was there. That was the last proper food I had. I had fun there, meeting and talking to some of her husband’s relatives. I don’t remember many things though; my memory has seemed to have deteriorated recently.
*
I can’t sleep properly. I keep tossing around on my bed. My grand daughter tries to make me comfortable and tells me to sleep. I can manage only a few minutes of sleep before I wake up again.
*
All in all, I would say I had a good life. I have a nice, happy family. Yes, we have our disputes, but at least we are still together. My children threw me a birthday party on my 80th birthday and everyone was there. It was really nice to see them all together. What more would a mother want besides seeing all her children happy? From where I stand, I see that my children and grandchildren are happy. Although problems do exist, although it pains me to think of those problems, I am still proud of what we have achieved. I am proud of my family. I have done my duty, and done it as best as I could.
*
I wake up. I no longer feel hot and my grand daughter covers me up with the blanket. I turn over to my left and try to sleep.
*
My time has come. I have my parents, sister, brothers, husbands, daughters and grandson waiting for me. I know they’ll take care of me. I know I will be happy. Although it will hurt many people that I am no more around, my memory remains with them, and I will always look out for them. I see the light, I move towards it. Now, I feel no more pain.
