Fan Appatha – Utharakosamangai Relationships – 9
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('Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)
(“Appatha with a hand fan” – Photo courtesy: Usha Bharathi)
He had never seen a “fan saint.” But his grandmother, always with a hand fan in her hand, was his everything at one point in life—his “Fan Appatha.” She was a commanding woman who took full responsibility for the entire household, moving about the house, managing and disciplining everyone.
Since he had come to live in his grandfather’s house at a very young age, it was Appatha who raised him. Widowed at just twenty, she came to live in her younger brother’s house (his grandfather’s home), handed over all her property to him, and took upon herself the responsibility of raising his children—and later, the grandchildren too. She became the head of the family.
She had her own designated place in the central hall. From there, she would direct everyone—his mother, aunts—getting work done with authority. Even his grandmother (his grandfather’s wife) behaved with respectful fear toward her. Appatha handled all household work effortlessly—boiling heaps of paddy, drying them, cleaning rice from the mill, removing husk and stones, breaking tamarind pods with a stick and separating the pulp. A tireless worker.
He too would help—removing stones from rice, breaking tamarind—but his real intention was to eat them. Especially raw tamarind—that tangy taste that made the mouth water.
She was also passionate about gardening. In the backyard and courtyard, she grew snake gourd, bitter gourd, pumpkin, tomato, okra, and many more vegetables. He loved tying stones to snake gourds, plucking pumpkin flowers to place in Margazhi kolams, and watching chickens she raised. He would eagerly lift the basket covering a brooding hen to see if chicks had hatched.
She saved money from selling paddy from her fields. During times of famine, she would give her savings to his grandfather—she was strong in financial management too. During weddings in the family, she guided everything from within the house, ensuring things ran smoothly. Relatives from Madurai often marveled at how much she knew from experience despite not being formally educated.
When he was in primary school, he often had skin issues—rashes and sores on knees, hands, and legs. A mischievous boy at school would push him down for fun, making sand get into his wounds. Another friend, Sankaran, would bring him home. Appatha would praise Sankaran and scold the other boy.
Every morning, she would bathe him, apply herbal paste for his rashes, dry him, and apply medicine. She would dress him in shirt and shorts, pour coconut oil generously on his head until it dripped onto his face, apply powder all over, and send him to school—completely adorned (and slightly messy). At that age, he never realized how his face would look streaked with oil, powder, and sweat.
He learned how to buy vegetables from her—bend drumsticks to check freshness, snap okra tips, tap raw bananas. He also had to buy betel leaves and areca nut for her. If the betel leaves had defects, both he and the shopkeeper would be scolded.
Watching her prepare betel leaves was an art. He would sit beside her. She would crush areca nut, chew a bit, take a fresh betel leaf, remove the central vein, give him the stem, apply lime, fold it, chew, and then show her tongue asking, “Has it turned red?” He would marvel and say yes—with just the stem in his mouth. He was never given the leaf—“a hen will peck you,” they would say, and he would believe it.
There was no electricity then—only kerosene lamps for studying. Later came electric bulbs and switches, but still no fans. Before and after electricity, it was always hand fans—made of palm or coconut leaves, in different colors.
Appatha always had a fan in her hand. It had many uses—fanning air, scratching her back, and gently tapping him when he misbehaved.
Lying in the central hall, she would ask him to read aloud stories from the library—novels by Kalki, Lakshmi, Rangaraju, and many more. In between, she would ask him to pick lice from her hair—he would press and kill them with a “crunch.”
They played many indoor games together—pallankuzhi, dayam, and more. She was highly skilled—collecting seeds, strategizing, winning effortlessly. Even when he bought a carrom board, she would defeat him easily. Sometimes, when he complained “cheating!” she would let him win.
In her youth, she suffered from a skin condition that covered her body in white patches, making her stay indoors. But within the house, she was unmatched in games and presence.
Once, during his high school annual day, he acted as a hero (a police inspector). Just to watch him, she came outside the house, covering her head, and sat at a temple platform. After returning, she lovingly warded off the evil eye for him.
Today, he falls asleep listening to Carnatic music. Back then, he fell asleep listening to her stories—along with the chatter of neighborhood women.
She told him many tales—folk stories, tragic stories, and her own life story:
Her father working in Sikkal, her grandfather selling paddy in markets, her childhood, her early marriage, losing her children, her struggles in her husband’s house, his sudden death, and her return to her brother’s home—all filled with tears.
Despite hardships, the family supported her. She would sometimes sit quietly, lost in memories—of her father, grandfather, and childhood.
Time passed. Others in the family passed away. The family dispersed. Yet she insisted on living in the same house, cooking for herself. His parents visited her often.
Once, relatives took her on a trip outside town. After returning, her face was full of joy. She showed all the things she had bought with pride.
In her final years, she stayed near his parents. Even then, village women gathered at night under the neem tree to hear her stories. Whenever he visited, he would play games with her, deliberately losing, reliving old memories.
Each time he left, she would say with teary eyes,
“Next time you come… I may or may not be here.”
And one day, that came true.
By the time he arrived with his family, the rites were over. At the cremation ground, he saw her old sarees lying there. In his mind, he saw her standing after a bath, draped in a single saree, praying to the sun. She never worshipped any deity—only the sun. Perhaps life’s sorrow shaped that.
Her sarees remained. But where was she?
Once, as a child, he had asked her:
“After your father and grandfather died, where did they go?”
She said:
“Look up… they become clouds, roaming above, watching us, protecting us through rain.”
He looked up. There were white clouds—like the white patches on her skin.
And he wondered:
“Which cloud are you, Appatha?”
------nagendra bharathi
My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English
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