The under-celebrated person in my life is my grandfather - Appuppan.
Growing up, I formed very specific bonds with the people around me. Each relationship was different—never the same topics, needs, or expectations. With Appuppan, it was something quiet and effortless. When I think of him, I remember only a smile.
A smile I would run toward from the bus stop.
The blue gate in front of the house.
Him standing there.
That sight is etched into me.
Countless afternoons were spent listening to his never-ending stories. Every vacation I visited home, he would gift me a pen and a notebook. That pen became my lucky charm until the next vacation. He was the one who told me, “Your signature and handwriting should stand out.” From ink pens to every modern version that followed, we had our own little ritual of testing, rating, and debating them.
Once, I told him I wanted junk food from a street vendor. When no one else was home, he made my wish come true. He had a secret stash of snacks that only we shared. We had many secrets like that.
Yet, he was the person who demanded the least—no loud affection, no expectations. He simply existed among us, smiling, enabling, loving quietly.
When I was too young to even understand what an atom was, he told me how it was once believed to be indivisible—and how even that had changed. I listened with fascination. In his wallet, he carried our photographs. He would proudly show them and say, “When I miss them, they’re right here.”
One vacation, while walking in the courtyard, he said out of nowhere,
“I’m getting old. One day you’ll get a call to Kochi saying Appuppan is no more.”
The innocence in me couldn’t bear that thought. I cried uncontrollably. My uncle took him for a full body check-up. He was perfectly fine.
His room was the most minimalistic space I have ever known. I sat there often, listening to him talk about how much he missed his children, how he wished distance didn’t separate us, how deeply he missed his parents. Looking back, I still wonder what bond we shared for him to tell me, a child, all of this.
Whenever he spoke about his mother, there was a soft sadness. He would say he wished she would visit him in his dreams—just once. I have never heard anyone speak of their mother the way he did. I can only imagine the bond they shared.
From stories of how he met my grandmother to endless tales of people and places, he was gentle in so many ways. One story that stays with me is how he never ate a full meal, worried that my grandmother might not have enough. A quiet, under-celebrated love of their time.
Life takes away much. After my grandmother passed, I never saw him smile the same way again. He lost his voice, his place, and the charm of storytelling. Soon after, he became weak.
I was so excited to tell him about getting placed. He just held my hand. I wished things were different.
And one December, I got a call from my uncle. Just as he had predicted years ago, I heard the message.
It has been twelve years since he left us. —to linger a little longer in our conversations and tell him, “Appuppa, it’s okay to miss people. All that matters is that we remember them—and live by the lessons they taught us.”
Every time I get a new pen, I remember you.
Every time life feels heavy, I remember your smile.
Your stories—I will carry them always. ❤️
