Once upon a time, there was an old man. My valliachan who I met only five times but left an indelible mark upon me.
He led a very virtuous life. He taught the poor and disciplined them for life; one of them came all the way for his cremation from Dharmapuri to Palakkad.
He was remembered fondly by one and all. Even his elder sister and family, who are not in talking terms with his family, came and cried.
The unexpected coming back of his prodigal son after a long time and then, a more unexpected twist wherein he committed suicide for still unknown reasons, had made him very, very upset. That suicide had begun his countdown.
But like valliachan's life, his death was a blessed one too: he passed away quickly among all his loved ones. He even waited for his beloved grandchildren to come back from their school; that fateful day they arrived earlier than usual by 15 minutes. He was fortunate to sip water from their loving hands before breathing his last.
My kuttus have looked after him and his wife all their childhood. They have experienced the deaths of three close ones till date and each death has made them stronger, but humbler. He had taught them excellent values and skills in life.
Anandham (his man Friday) and me had a long chat while waiting for takeaway at the nearby Iyer restaurant. He was completely at a loss for words. He was mourning his death. He was nostalgically reminiscing every event and incident with the old man.
If Anandham can feel the irreparable loss and can cry after valliachan's death, he has led a blessed life. May his soul rest in peace.
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