Thatha

I was riding a friend’s scooter when my mother called me and said R.Velayudham, her uncle or Ilavarasu Thatha as Icalled him, had died.
The pandemic was raging. Curbs on movement had made all of us prisoners in our homes. I relished the morsel of freedom i got that day after being confined to my home for months. The news of his death sounded like a dampener. I tried acting as if it did not make much difference.

I longed for a quiet spot when i went to his home. But as I spent the night at his place, Irealised my indifference was just a pretence. Ilavarasu thatha, for me, was not another relative; he was one of those who made a meaningful impact on my life.

During quiet moments in the last two years, I remembered many happy moments we shared. I got close to Thatha after my father’s death. He built a house in Trivandrum and decided to settle here some years after his retirement. It was a chance meeting. I went to his place the next day, the day after, and I ended up spending most of my spare time with him for the next few years. I was a teenager angry with the world (I am still to an extent), and he was a man who weathered many a storm, but we got along. It was an unusual bond with someone 50 years older than me.

We often sparred and never agreed. Thatha firmly believed in a higher power, and my agnosticism led to many arguments.But we had certain things in common; both hated hypocrisy and loved non-vegetarian food. He persuaded me to eat fish. When we didn’t argue, he would light his cigarette and talk to me about his life. About his childhood in Thirunelveli, his grandfather, about how much he missed his mother, who died young, his difficult days in Arokkanam and his travels all over the country.

There were not many secrets between us at that time. He must have changed his jobs more than half a dozen times and lived in an equal number of towns. He started as an engineer, worked for Indian railways, tried his luck in business, and eventually became a marketing man.

He was more millenial than his grandchildren, in a way. And he excelled in every assignment he took, marked by meticulousness that came naturally to him. Nutrine, where he joined well into his middle age, chose him as one of the best managers they ever had.

He was more tech-savvy than his grandchildren and grand nephews; he taught us to send an email and helped a nephew to learn tally. He used to make presentations using flash when he was bored.

He read for sheer joy; he liked Sidney Sheldon and Nevil Shute and had no qualms in devouring Chetan Bhagat. Both of us loved Khushwant Singh. He told me he liked “A Train to Pakistan” but loved “Sunset Club” as it was about older men and their problems. We saw Avatar on the first day it was released in Trivandrum, and he was more thrilled about it than I.

What I most admired in him was his sense of forgiveness which was almost ascetic. He went out of the way to help people who had snubbed him in the past.Even a compassionate man would have preferred to settle scores, but here he was doing everything in his power to help.

His last days were difficult; for a man who met every challenge thrown at him with a smile, he was unprepared for this final ordeal.

I realised life could throw googlies and leave even the strongest of men wailing. Seeing Thatha, who was happiest while working and confined to his bed, shattered me. I felt I won the god argument, but it broke my heart.

I started working around the time his health started to decline. My work life brought fresh challenges, and I missed his counsel. As his pyre was about to be lit, I grabbed his feet for one last time. I felt grateful to be by his side to say goodbye one last time. I lost that special person who combined the role of a grand uncle, grandfather, philosopher and friend.