The Day I Cried:

Achronology: 001

Start Date: 19 April 2012

End Date: 24 April 2012

First review and correction: May 4, 2012

(The above dates are my actual writing date not exactly the day when this happened.)
I lived with my parents, the concept of Boarding school was always there but I refused to stay away from home. My mother used to say that I am like my Grandpa Mr. Thambuswamy who is my father’s father. I liked that idea of being referred to him but I know that I am not like him. He was a very silent but tough person who sits quietly in a metal chair (we have metal chairs made of thin tin sheets and chairs of metal wounded with plastic rope). He is quite pleased to sit in a corner and watch us over. The biggest part is that I am his pet. My brother always finds at the wrong end of his beating stick. If he makes any mischief he will be beaten up, if I make one still he will get some from him. I was protected by him he was my true guardian angel. The best part of my life was with him, I felt like the tiny Maharaja who has the privilege of sitting under the fan like in the “Kaithan advertisement”.

He took care of me everyday till I was in College; he passed away when I was in my Second year in Madras Christian College, Tambaram. He will take care of my books, wash my dress, prepare me for the exam. He does all the activities in our house starting from getting milk (standing in the quae for one bottle of milk), getting the ration, buying vegetables and groceries, preparing dough for the next day. This is apart from other activities like paying electricity bills, banks, Postal order, money order etc.,

I thought of buying him some gifts for his birthday which falls on 26of December the day after Christmas, but like many kids I failed miserably I didn’t gave him anything. I regret to till this day that I couldn’t do much when he was buried, as my father did not bought the place of his burial it is no longer belong to us. He now belongs to nature only in spirit and in reality. One thing I can take console his that my elder son carries his name “Thambuswamy” more reluctantly than with joy. I used to say that he own my grandpa’s name so he must be brave. But the name being old I know he was ridiculed by both his friend and by his younger brother. I was quite adamant in giving his name so that whenever his name is called up in Church for Birthday wishes I recollect the joyous moment when my grandpa names will be spelled out on Christmas mass.

The reasons for such long narration are just to give an idea how much that he took care of me. He became very sick once as he had high sugar and become diabetic. He won’t be able to control urinating and we kept a plastic basket which will be emptied as and when it fills up. My mother took care of him and we tried to treat him.

But Doctor has given the advice that he can be of little help and put him on strict diet. My mother received much advice and one such advice was that we should give him what he wants rather than what is suggested by the doctor.
So my mother asked him about his food and he preferred “Kellvaragu Kanchi” (finely ground ragi) so my mother prepared some and gave it to him. It was me who use to give him the food so I gave to him. He asked me for a glass of milk. I went to my mother and conveyed the same. She gave a glass of milk so I returned to him, again he asked for some sugar to be added in the Kellvargu Kanchi, milk mix. I got shocked as it was against the doctors prescriptions. So I again went to my mother and she handed me the sugar bottle.

My grandpa ate to his heart delight. We gave sugar and milk to a diabetic patient against the Doctors prescription. After about a week or so which I do not remember he became strong and is able to walk. The continuous urination also stopped. So again my mother took him to the Doctor and he was quite pleased with him and asked about how the prescription went. My mother gave the prescription namely “the Kellvaragu Kanchi-Milk-Sugar mix”. The Doctor looked more shocked than when I gave my grandpa the first dosage. He kept quiet for some time and said to my mother that for him only my mother’s medicine will work and asked us to continue the same.
He got up, started to walk well and did all the activities which he used to do earlier. So I did not have anything to do with crying when he was walking all around me. Even today he visits me when I sleep especially when I am really down mentally.

But all good things must come to an end and so it happened, my Grandpa’s elder sister passed away. The telegram reached us late as they mentioned a very old address. So he was unable to attend her funeral (that probably kept him alive for some more time). So my father and he went for the prayer meet organized at his native town Salem-Dharmapuri.

When he came back he was literally a dead man. A man who took the fight to diabetic with a dosage of sugar rich food decided to go on self declared hunger strike. He stopped taking food, he started to consume very little day by day. Irrespective of my regular insisting he refuses to take more and hands over most of the food back to me. He became sick day by day. He moved away from rich food to light food and then eventually to liquid food. It was my job to feed / provide food to him irrespective of whether it is liquid or solid. He was literally in comma or equivalent to it. He slept most of the time, we have to wake him up for any little food / liquid which he took. I was in my college at that time and one day when I came home a bit early by around 03:00 p.m. I looked at him and found he was sleeping.

My grandpa is a deep sleeper being; a hunter in his hay days his physique is lean and strong. His breathing will be very deep, strong and holds for long. So it is difficult to identify whether he is really breathing. I had this doubt for long as most of the movies talk about death when the breathing stops still. So I use to keep watch over him when he sleeps and will ensure that he takes his breath thrice before moving. It is sort of my own practice which I developed of my own.
On that fateful day I had a very bad feeling and my elder brother was leaving to his work. He just finished his technical training and was working as a company apprentice. Just before he was leaving I stopped him and asked him to take leave. Like usual he had scornful look in his faced and asked me why. I told him initially not to leave. He insisted again with the same look. I took some guts and told him that Grandpa does not seem to be looking good today, so I asked him to stay tonight. To be honest I was scared to be alone on that day, though my father was at home as he took voluntary retirement. My father normally lives in his own world, so on that day I looked upto my elder brother for some real support. He brushed me aside with remark “nonsense” and left the house.

As a default I asked my father about my grandpa. He replied as usual that he is quite alright and when I asked him about grandpa’s lunch. I got the usual reply “well he slept, so I let him”. I asked him again have you given him anything to drink. The reply need be given here, as usual my father’s reply remain more or less the same.

So I took up the job I prepared a small quantity of Horlicks and woke my grandappa. He struggled to sit but I managed to hold him. He started to drink his last drink of his life (so probably he would have lived longer if not for my poor preparation with that so called health drink). I felt something bad so I asked my father to be besides him. I walked out and sat in the stairs leading to our open terrace. I normally sit there when I am gloomy and confused.
I can hear my father’s voice saying to my Grandpa “be carefully while you lie back on the bed”. Something in me pulled and I did not move from my place. I want my father to confirm if anything went wrong. After a few minutes there was no sound from either of them. So I walked back to where my father was sitting and asked him about my grandpa. He replied with usual saying that he completed the drink and started to sleep again.

I went inside the room and look at him. True he was usual self; sleeping(?) deeply. I could not register his breathing. I just said to myself that it is usual that his breathing is very deep and shallow. I kept standing and standing but couldn’t register his breathing. DEAD?


But I am not ready for that not yet. So I went to my father and told him what I saw and asked him to look at my grandpa. I went back to where I belonged; hiding myself in the staircase waiting for the dreadful news.
Instead my father came back to me and asked me to come inside. My reply was simple “why” and the answer I got was schocking it is not that my father declared him dead but he wants to me check him.

Eventually I went in and stood in silence for sometime praying that he will take his breath once again; that deep shallow but steady breathing. But it never came, and then finally I declared to my father that he was dead.

I really do not whether he cried but I was empty like a stone, no emotion my grandpa who took care of me, who brought me up lied before me DEAD. I am his pet grandson was nothing but a stone acted like a Doctor who declared that one of his clients has just passed away. My father left home to bring my mother from school. I was alone with my Grandpa again, all alone for the first time ever in the world.

My mind was reeling on what to do. My mind rolled on such similar instances. One thing is to cry, but how. I just don’t know how to cry. Being born as a boy or been told that you are boy means one thing. A boy should not cry like a girl. I remember that I use to cry when I was a child for want of few things, when I am under pain. But having been told and brought up that being a boy means that one should not cry. Further it was said that I was more like my grandpa who never showed his pain. So I stood like a stone without any emotion. I went back to my hiding place the staircase.

After some time I heard my neighborhood aunty calling me up by my pet name “Cheecha” (meaning feeding bottle) so I walked up to the fence which is nothing but grown up bushes and trees. She enquired me one what is going on. I told her the same thing which I said to my father that I think that Grandpa is dead. She immediately said that I should speak in such manner and she rushed into our house. I also walked into the house she stood by the side of my grandpa for few minutes. The she said that he must have been dead and she left.

Again I am alone with my Grandpa, the one and only pet grandson standing like a carved stone. In fact I tried to even cry like in movies I placed two of my finger over my like some famous heroes do in movies to cry but nothing happened. I said to myself what is happening and why can’t I cry. Then it hit me. My Grandpa has just died and I am trying to fake crying. How absurd it is? I got angry over myself. Once again I walked out and went to the place where I can hide, in the staircase.
This time I walked out and went back to the staircase and sat fuming with anger on myself. My mind was still unable to accept the fact that I could remain in such a manner. Crying is sin, crying is what girls do, crying is what kids, toddler do. A young man in his college cannot cry, but how. All these are running in my mind.
Suddenly I remembered that my grandpa is lying all alone. So I went back to the house and started to think. What people normally do in such situations? At that time the usage of freezer for the dead person is not rampant.

People normally garland them and fan him out to whisker away the flies that normally comes. I thought about it and then switched on the fan and sat by him. He used to sit by me, when I read, write, play and while I sleep. When there won’t be any electricity he uses his towel as a fan. He was at my side always; on that day I sat by his side not able to cry but sitting by his side giving him company.
I saw my mother came in and she cried. As many say my grandpa treated my mother as his daughter and not as daughter-in-law. But his pet grandson still watching like a stone not even now unable to cry. Then I told my parents that I will go and bring my elder brother from his work place. I want to scold him when I met him, because I forewarned him before leaving. So I took the bicycle and went to the place where he said he was working. But I could find the factory which he named I searched in vain and returned.

In those days there is no mobile even telephone is a luxury. I still want to scold him so I was expecting him soon and the moment he comes I will bounce on him like a hunting leopard with a statement “I told you so”. As his shift ends by 10:00 he reached home and on his way he got the message from the neighbors. No soon he entered he cried with a very loud voice “Thattha” meaning Grandpa. He was crying endlessly and my mother joined with him.

I was shocked and could not understand why he is crying. He hated him (that is what I thought), he will be always punished for all his and my mistakes. I was the king, the Maharaj of my grandpa his great loving grandson. I am unable to cry, I could not even think of crying. Then I though probably my brother was faking because I know he was not his pet. He must be mimicking so that everyone else will think that he is good fellow.

Truly speaking he is the good Samarian there; this scoundrel who is writing this article branding his own brother as fake. It is because he himself is unable to cry. I am just a rogue standing like pillar thinking on all non-sense on about others. I tried to mimic, I was trying to fool others but I could not. I still could not understand how my elder brother manages to cry. He kept crying all night, I was just sitting and watching.

Only two thoughts were in my mind. One is that, why I am unable to cry. Is it because I am boy, a man, or someone who does not have a soul, a criminal who accuses others. And the second is how my brother can cry non-stop from the moment when he entered. Is he faking or am I really a rogue?
The day passed on. Family members, friends, neighbors’ came; paid their respect. My father’s office workers came last my mother’s school teachers came and left. Until such time I still remained what I am moving around with nothing inside. My soul on that should have been frozen or my mind simply refuses to accept what is going around me.

For the final prayers Church members came along with Church priest. I saw my mother still crying and my brother even still crying. My mother so long been surrounded by many of her school teachers who paid their last respect few moments ago. Now she is crying all alone sitting on the foot side of my grandpa.

I felt sorry for my mother if not for my grandpa whom I should have missed more. I went and sat nearby her. Preparations were going on for the last journey of my grandpa. The arrival of coffin was declared by someone.

The coffin was brought in I heard my brother crying getting louder. My mother followed it, prayers just started and my Grandpa finally my dear Grandpa was lifted and placed in the coffin. I could only see his feet; suddenly all of all suddenly was pulled right inside me. As if my heart broker into two, I was not worried about my anything now. It was a pull a great pull, and then it started.

I heard my voice of crying over the voice of mother, over the voice of my elder brother whom I know now is not faking, over than the voice of the parish priest. People tried to console me but my heart for the first time in more than 24 hours felt the pain and let out a roar.

I cried my heart out, tears flowing down my cheeks I forgot that I was a boy, I forgot that I was young man, I forgot the statement that being a boy one should not cry like a girl. I even forgot that I his pet grandson. I cried like a sinner, who just got his soul back, I cried as if it was the last day of my life. I cried and cried.

I never know what they prayed; I never know what they said to me during that time. I cried I cried and I was over with it. I cried and walked with my grandpa in his final journey. I carried the coffin cover I felt as if I am going with him to the grave and literally so as the burial ground is lower from the road side. My crying came down during the last few minutes. But I was more than a relived man, I was not faking, I did not doubt on my brother’s and I am no more carried on my guilty conscious.

Still people say that crying is for girls; great and let it be so.. But I cried after I did cried on many occasion loss of close friend in an accident, my own father and that too when I was far away in Middle East. I even cried a bit (with small tears swelling on my eyes when I wrote this). On that fateful day I was all a stone, a guilty grandson, an accuser, a sinner and then of course a man who could somehow find his soul to express his thoughts.

p.s: I thought of writing on that day to express how I felt, but neither my English nor my mother tongue was good enough for writing. My handwriting is the worst. Even today my mother tongue Tamil remains in the same status and so my English. However like that sinner who is able to find his soul to cry I find some guts to pen or type this down. So that is why I wrote this article first. I still have tears whenever I tried to re-read this for correction. Finally I can feel my soul over my pride. If you find it so, just let me know.

Achronology of John - A Foreward

Achronology of John Foreword: Dated: 19 April 2012 This has nothing to do with John the Baptist and if you are scholar looking for material related to him you will not find it here. I also tender my apology to those who are religious who may think that I am offending on John the Baptist. Why I named this as above is explained in parts below. I tender my apology upfront to all those who read this, if this article hurts them directly or indirectly.

My name is Prabhakaran son of John Chelliah. My passport as per the rule caries his whole name in fact an account was opened in his name only when I was in Middle East. As they take the name in the passport it was John Chelliah in whose name I drawn and operated my salary account. John being a more popular name I hope to get few more hits and it is also part of my name. So I selected John in my title.

Why Achronology? Chronology means documenting in a sequential order especially with respect to time. Like when one is born, from whom and how he went up in his life etc., I am not a great person who is known to everyone. So there is no fun in starting from there. I also do not have enough time and patience to record my life in the chronological order. So I decided to record some good, bad, happy, sorrow, boring moments which happened in my life.

I am not writing my own biography, but I decided to write something about my life the way I lived, the way I felt and the way I thought. Since this does not commence from my birth to the present day or to glorious moment which is remembered by all I name the title as Achronology a word which is not in dictionary. Why John? You know that already.

I write this achronology and I am keeping a record of the same in a chronological order i.e. the day when I have written that particular piece.

I also give views as felt by me on myself and on others. If this is hurting or not acceptable to those who read this I tender my apology now itself. This is not a writing to accept, reject, and comment on anything or anyone. It is just how I felt on that given moment and how my mind thought or behaved at that particular point.