Breaking Away

This essay was my submission for the Prof Barbra Naidu Prize for Personal Essay organised by Dept of English, St Joseph’s College, Bangalore. I would highly recommend you to visit opendosa.in for amazing essays that should be read. The theme for the year 2021 was ‘Breaking Away’.

One of my favourite lines that I have ever written goes, “Every Malayali father is a Mufasa”. I still strongly believe that they come in all shapes and form. Some like my Acha, who is modern in an unorthodox sense and some like Achacha, who is considered modern despite the orthodox ways he had. One thing that The Lion King taught me is that there can be only one Mufasa. It never occurred to me what scarring would happen when two Mufasas exist in the same kingdom. 

Achacha, Acha and I were under the same roof due to the national lockdown being announced. The last time the three generations of the family were together for a longer period of time was during Achama’s medical treatment at the Navy hospital. She was the link between the two of them and when she moved to what I hope to be a better place, I believe that she will continue to fuss over everything under the stars. From who is going to firefight when the dormant issues ooze out to the skewed relationship dynamics that continues to evolve in the family. I am sure she will never break away from this habit of worrying and hence never rest in peace. 

A life-changing chain of events led to ever in-command Achacha feeling out of place after a long time. He was in a state of loss and anger of being discarded. Never in his nightmares was this move imagined but it happened. A relocation from one son’s house to the other sounds nothing on paper, but the move made my Achacha feel like a refugee crossing the rough seas and hoping for a return to his homeland, dreaming of a better tomorrow. Even in the master bedroom where his living arrangements were made, Achacha was still a slave to his past and remained chained to it. He continued to long for his old room and everything associated with it. If he had broken away, perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps some hard truths would have stumbled out later in a state of intoxication. Not in a state of sobriety as it is firmly imprinted and spills over the good things you had on them as well. 

Staying together gave me an insight to where certain habits come from.. From licking the plates so clean that it can be sold again to this simmering flame of ego. It is this type of flame on our stoves where it does its work in stealth and suddenly pushes everything outside leading to a big mess to clean and even bigger damage to the vessel. I don’t know whether I should be glad that there is a reason to why I have this or feel angry about why I have this among many other things. 

My stoic Achacha rarely smiles, his face would even make the Grinch a little worried about what sucked his happiness. A non-dramatic man however did everything his frail body would make possible to elicit a performance that would even confuse Mr. Bachchan. The actions that Achacha did might momentarily lead Mr. Bachchan to not fuss over the tweet numbering but rather the damage he is bringing along. 

Since the time I can form a memory, Acha has always been a laid-back superhero. The ‘fun dude’ your friends love, the macho man of the numerous friend groups he is part of. The guy one can always approach for pretty much everything. Achacha was well Achacha, whenever Acha’s schoolmates meet or whenever his sisters-in-law squeeze my cheeks and exclaim how tall I am. They fondly recollect the towering presence he had in their lives and the influence and memory they carry today as well. They talk about how they were worried.

Achacha made Acha look like a human. Acha showed Achacha why he is not godly. The thought of them being a human was something I vehemently denied to myself. Like many other precious things the pandemic has robbed from human-kind, this was mine. To me, not only did Achacha knock himself from the pedestal I had carefully and consciously constructed for him but he also managed to topple over Acha’s leading to a cold mess.

When I read on feminism and patriarchy, the fact that the oppressor can also be oppressed due to the actions he has been asked to follow through or benefits from was a late realisation. The first time I broke from the norms of worshipping and respecting broke one July evening. Achacha began his tantrums in a subtle but stubborn manner. Acha lost his composure in an extravagant yet docile style. This battle of opposites seemed like a ball-less tennis match of stares. In the process of turning my neck, I ended up showing my neck out thereby being sucked into the cesspool of male ego. It invariably led to me shouting as well. My frustrations and numbness toppled over too. Achacha admitted he was not right but didn’t acknowledge he was wrong as well. Our resolve in not moving away from egos and being the deciding authority reigned supreme. No one won that day.

Due to us living in different places in the past, the initial meeting after the long period of time was enveloped in awkwardness with a dollop of eagerness. It was compensated by him with gifts and in me taking great care and sly showing off on the origin of them. The fondest memories I have of Achacha was the impromptu drawing sessions he did for me when I was young. Working with the set of connector sketch pens fascinated him and his surprise and the delicateness in sketching which is otherwise missing everywhere else surprised me. The first and only time Achacha wiggled his butt was when I brought him for my grandparent’s day celebrations. In a rough and tough Safari suit tailored to fit and holding dearly to his Nokia 3310 mobile, Achacha danced. Of course, with a stoic expression in his face but I know he treasured dancing with his kochumon for a tamil folk song. The photo of us dancing together still continues to be stuck on his wall in his vacated fortress of solitude. Sometimes I speculate that Achacha held on to that moment because that was his attempt in breaking away from the image he was perhaps forced to construct upon.

Acha broke away from the norms of being a mallu father and was more of a friend. So much so, when I liked someone in my 8th grade, he was the first to know before my best friend. Hence, the question on why Acha is like this hovered around in my mind. Thinking about it now, I wished I did not. 

In glimpses of volley of accusations and silences, a glimpse of Acha’s parts of childhood emerged. To me, it is scarring and thereby gives an explanation to a lot of things that I benefit or get protected from. In that heavy silences in between the stories and the clash that emerges, Achacha’s stoic face expressed guilt and remorse. It is a never ending cycle, I am sure how the rich social capital that my paternal side enjoyed or enjoys has robbed a lot of things that would have made existence over generations a bit more peaceful. 

By late August, things began taking a bigger nosedive, the strain evidently seen in the household translated to additional stress practically everywhere else. The visits to the hospital went on to increase. It was always a result of stubborness between the two that ensured that nurses can identify us with our masks on as well. During Onam, the pookolam which adorned the entrance to our house was colourful with a simple design. Yet, the dynamics in the house was robbed of its colour and the feelings in the relationship was complex. I wish I realised when I saw my Achacha who would have been mistaken for a zombie that he began the process of completely breaking away.

On the 11th of September, he achieved the process of going away. For a man who was never into dramatising, he had a dramatic exit that resembled the end of a character in a movie. One long breath, a short breath asking for water. Three long breaths and with a final look over us, he slipped to the status of his presence relegated to a photograph and recollection.

I have seen numerous people having close relationships with their grandparents. Probably my hard luck but I never had the chance to exploit the closeness and the warmth a grandparent would give. Right from the moment he slipped, I broke away as well on a descent of guilt. A feeling one would have when they have finally realised the answer to the toughest and most important question but are running out of time sooner than they want to. I broke away from the notion that the root-cause to all my troubles was not my Achacha but rather my anger and helplessness towards him.

It has been a long time since I have slept. I constantly go back to some of the good days we have had. Acha introducing achacha to selfies, achacha lecturing acha on how neer dosa is underrated. The silent battle to supremacy of who is a better carrom board player during the lockdown. Achacha saying no to the variety of food on the plate while gorging on them a minute later. In some instances it is difficult breaking away the past, from the present, this was one for all of us. Now they are splinters in the wheel of grief and regret the family goes through. 

At all this point, Amma was the anchor. She also could not break away as well from the existing norms and the new normal she was forced to inherit. In a way, each one of us is struggling to break away from the best and the worst. A well layered trap updated in each generation, one would wonder what if the bait was not taken. “What if?” is a question that is like an appendage stuck to the dilemma of breaking away. Neither offering respite nor giving a glimpse of an idea.

I believe that a closure is never possible. Amma always keep a plate of Achacha’s favourite delicacies aside. Acha has his silent argument of demanding forgiveness from him and begging for forgiveness from him after his bath. Occasionally, I stare into the three photos I have of him smiling. When the ashes of Achacha were immersed in the river a pooja was conducted. It was charged exorbitantly. All I could think when this entire process was done, was how Achacha would lose his cool at the money being spent over this, noting down his expenses in a small pocket diary in the tiniest handwriting to save space. Some presences perhaps are never meant to be breaking away.