Visalatchi was my paternal grandmother. She's one of the first iron lady i knew. We always had story time with her.
Her story revolved around her arrival from India through the kangany system. The pain and payoffs during that time.
It was quite enthralling listening to something which was like a Tamil movie.
Govindammal was my maternal grandmother. Every time she came for a visit, we would pester her for more stories.
Her stories were more melancholic. She often talks about war. About her people whom she left behind. About some of them who died.
She often cried while telling these stories that at a point i told her we don't want those stories anymore.
During her stay, I used to follow her walking, early in the morning. She would walk to the back of the open gardens and start feeding the birds.
We had small swallows. I used to feed them too. With rice and corn bits.
She often mumbled something while throwing the grains.
"Are you talking to the birds, Awwah?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Yes, I'm telling them to eat these offering i make and hope that my dead relatives from war get enough food wherever they are now!" She answered, tears streaming down her face.
She said that she was lucky she missed the Sri Lankan war just in time. But sometimes looking at all her losses she said that she didn't feel lucky at all.
Later, meeting refugees in Malaysia and helping them improve their lives with education seemed to give me some peace Perhaps it made my late grandparents a little happier.
Somehow the tradition stuck on me. I started feeding birds wherever i went.
I donate food on the new moon day.
Every offering, i pray, those war victims are blessed someway, somewhere, somehow and have better lives now than before.
I believe it too.
Her story revolved around her arrival from India through the kangany system. The pain and payoffs during that time.
It was quite enthralling listening to something which was like a Tamil movie.
Govindammal was my maternal grandmother. Every time she came for a visit, we would pester her for more stories.
Her stories were more melancholic. She often talks about war. About her people whom she left behind. About some of them who died.
She often cried while telling these stories that at a point i told her we don't want those stories anymore.
During her stay, I used to follow her walking, early in the morning. She would walk to the back of the open gardens and start feeding the birds.
We had small swallows. I used to feed them too. With rice and corn bits.
She often mumbled something while throwing the grains.
"Are you talking to the birds, Awwah?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Yes, I'm telling them to eat these offering i make and hope that my dead relatives from war get enough food wherever they are now!" She answered, tears streaming down her face.
She said that she was lucky she missed the Sri Lankan war just in time. But sometimes looking at all her losses she said that she didn't feel lucky at all.
Later, meeting refugees in Malaysia and helping them improve their lives with education seemed to give me some peace Perhaps it made my late grandparents a little happier.
Somehow the tradition stuck on me. I started feeding birds wherever i went.
I donate food on the new moon day.
Every offering, i pray, those war victims are blessed someway, somewhere, somehow and have better lives now than before.
I believe it too.