Visiting an aunt

By Shevlin Sebastian

I drove up the hill. The road climbed straight up for 25 metres, then it took a sharp turn to the left. Then, after another 50 metres, I arrived at the courtyard of my aunt’s bungalow in Mammood (100 km from Kochi) in Kerala.

On this Saturday morning, Marykutty Aunty was relaxing on the porch. In earlier times, my aunt would have been reading a newspaper. But now she was browsing through images posted in a WhatsApp group.

She invited my wife and me to the living room. For decades, I have visited this ten-room bungalow. It has outhouses, a well to one side, a garden with a gazebo and a large estate all around.

My earlier visit to the house was on September 8, 2022. It was the 90th birthday celebration of Marykutty Aunty’s husband, Kurian (Pappachen) Sebastian. Relatives, friends, priests and nuns had arrived to celebrate the occasion.

Pappachen Uncle was in an advanced stage of intestinal cancer, but it was painless. Because he was so old, the doctor did not prescribe chemotherapy. So, Pappachen Uncle looked lively. His memory was intact. He interacted with everybody. He cut a cake. Everybody clapped. 

On October 28, Pappachen Uncle passed away. 

A 66-year marriage ended.

As my aunt spoke about those last days, her eyes filled up. She took the end of her pallu and pressed it against her eyelids.

To lighten the mood, she offered something to eat. But we just had our breakfast. In the end, I opted for a banana.

She brought a bunch on a tray. The skin was dark green. It tasted like a robusta but was half its size. In local parlance, they called it a ‘kaali pazham’. Marykutty Aunty had plucked the bunch from a tree at the back. She had not used pesticides or manure. It was a rare occasion when I did not eat fruit treated with chemicals.

Out of the blue, I said, “Aunty, in your 82 years, which period was the best?”

Marykutty Aunty was silent for a few moments. Then she said, “The best part was when the children were young and in school.”

She has two daughters, Tessy and Maymol, and a son, Sony.

Her answer confirmed what I already believed. For most women, motherhood gives them the greatest pleasure. Not marriage, or love of spouse, or even a wonderful career. All these are worthwhile, but they did not match the joy, fulfilment, as well as the anxiety of being a mother. Once a mother, you remain one till your death. Of course, that is the case with the father, too.

In the early days, Pappachen Uncle left for work at the Life Insurance Corporation of India at 9.30 am. Soon after, the children went to school. At 11 a.m. Marykutty Aunty took a bus and travelled to her in-laws’ house, which was about two kilometres away. 

Her father-in-law, PJ Sebastian (Achayan), was a noted politician and social worker. He had his office in the centre of the house. So, people would have to pass through the living room to enter it. Informal visitors walked by the side of the house, reached a courtyard, climbed the steps, and entered the office from the back.

There was always some discussion taking place. Achayan wrote a lot. In those days, there were no computers or laptops. People used fountain pens with Sulekha ink. “Achayan also read a lot,” my aunt said. Depending on what the visitors wanted, the lady cook, Maami Cheduthy, made tea or coffee, lime juice or buttermilk. Sometimes, a worker, Chacko, carried the glasses on a tray. Otherwise, Marykutty Aunty did it. 

She would return by 3.30 pm so that she would be at home when the children returned from school.

I asked, “How was Achayan as a person?”

“Very calm, pleasant, and always had a smile on his face,” she said. “I don’t remember him ever losing his temper.”

I asked, “How was he as a father-in-law?”

She shook her head and said, “He never treated me as a daughter-in-law. I was always a daughter to him.”

Marykutty aunty’s mother-in-law, Thresiamma, stationed herself in a room, with an open door, near the kitchen. Sometimes, Amma sat on a chair or lay on a wooden bed. She would supervise the cook and instruct the workers. Sometimes, they plucked black pepper from the trees. On other days, they tilled the land to grow jackfruit, bananas or rice.

At dawn, workers collected the latex from the rubber trees. The milk fell in steady drops into cups. They made these cups out of coconut shells. In an outhouse, the family had put up a rolling machine. The workers converted the latex milk into rubber sheets by adding ammonia and acid. The family sold these in bundles based on weight. 

Every morning, a man came to the house to milk the cows. There were several of them in the cowshed. They let out a moo now and then. Hens ran around the courtyard, clucking away and pecking at seeds.

It was the quintessential scene in a village of Kerala. 

Asked about her in-laws’ relationship, Marykutty Aunty said, “Both Achayan and Amma had a loving relationship.”

At night, Achayan would place the petals of a fragrant flower on Amma’s side of the bed. ‘Nice,’ I thought.

Since Achayan passed away in 1972, Marykutty Aunty was referring to the 1950s and 1960s. Achayan and Amma had eight children: six boys and two girls. Out of them, four have passed away.

Marykutty Aunty lives alone. To provide company, a 70-year-old woman called Achamma comes every night. Her house is outside the estate.

Marykutty Aunty has a maid, Sonia. She stays in an outhouse. Sonia is from Midnapore in Bengal. Her husband, Ganesh, works in a house a couple of kilometres away. But he comes in the night and stays with Sonia.

Throughout her life, Marykutty Aunty remained a homemaker. In contrast, her children’s lives were different.

Tessy had a 41-year career in education. Following her retirement, she worked for another eight years as Professor of Economics at St. Joseph’s College of Engineering and Technology in Pala. “Daddy used to remind me that the sky was the limit,” said Tessy. “My mother always told me to be humble and God-fearing.”

Marykutty Aunty’s son, Sony, is an entrepreneur. Her daughter Maymol helps her husband, Raju Davis, to run a school of 1600 pupils. They live in different parts of Kerala.

Marykutty Aunty has eight grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. Everybody comes for visits. She visits and spends time with her children. At Christmas, Easter and Onam, there are family celebrations.

My aunt said, “The years have rolled by.” 

She stared at the floor, looked up and said, “Life is short.”