I Hope Death Feels Like This.

Me, ajji, and dada, Chennai, 2019.

A lesser known fact about me that people don't expect is that my mom is a maharashtrian. So my mom's parents are not paati and thatha to me, they're ajji and dada.

In the summer of 2019, I had the realisation that that was probably going to be my last summer living at home, and I decided to do something to remember every day and record them in a summer diary with pictures. This was one of those days.

It had just started to pour, and I was playing music on my phone on ajji's terrace, with both ajji and dada sitting with me. I asked dada, "nenaiyalama?" (Shall we get drenched?) and ajji responded, "po, unna yaaru venamnu sonnaa" (who asked you not to?). And lo and behold, dada and I were in the rain just soaking the water in, laughing.

When I think of my ajji's house, I'm reminded of a world far away from my daily headaches. A home that the rest of my life doesn't overlap with. A home that's calm and jovial. A home where no matter how old I get, I'm still a child loved and cared for by my grandparents.

This is where crazy ajji-style sura puttu, fried-in-the-open-balcony French fries, varieties of the spiciest pickles, murukkus and thattais that hit just the right bud, and fryums made to taste really good even when eaten raw all come to life. A home where it's hard to resist ajji's yap sessions. A home where dada always has new stories to tell from his prime days. A home where ajji scolds dada "ey old man," and he takes it happily because who's gonna scold him if not for her. A home where, when the families meet on festivals, voices and loud laughter well up the living room.

Have you heard of the quote "𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 & 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮"? I hope I hear my ajji's living room.