Muran 4: Not My Granny

Muran 4: Not My Granny

I have a small request for you, dear reader.

Take a moment—close your eyes if you can—and think of your grandmother, especially your mother’s mother.
What comes to mind? Let me help you paint the picture.

A gentle smile on a yellow-tinged face adorned with a big red குங்குமப் பொட்டு.
Warm, loving eyes that light up with excitement.
The faint scent of incense from the pooja room lingers around her.
She’s draped in Madurai’s signature sungudi cotton saree, wearing big studs, a tiny nose pin, and heavy gold chains pinned with safety pins.

She blesses you every time you sneeze, feeds you your favorite treats, pulls you onto her lap, and smothers you with kisses.
She calls you —
“என் தங்கம், என் ராஜா, ராஜாதி, என் சாமி, என் தங்கமயில், என்னப் பெற்றாரு” —
each word soaked in affection and rhythm.
She defends you when your parents scold you:
“அவன் சமத்து, பொறுமையா எடுத்துச் சொன்னா புரிஞ்சுப்பான்.”

She shares stories of how mischievous your mom or dad once was, all while running her fingers through your hair.
A little naïve, a little gullible, but pure gold at heart.
The kind who spends her afternoon making வடை, பஜ்ஜி, ரவை லட்டு, or இனிப்பு பணியாரம், just because you like them.

If not all, most of this matches your granny, right?
Brings a smile, doesn’t it?

Well—nope, not my granny.
Mine was the complete opposite.

My grandmother always yelled.
Slim, tall, almost skeletal, but her வேங்கலக் குரல் could win a Guinness World Record for the longest yell.

She invented the most creative nicknames for her grandkids —
“கொண்டி, பாத சக்கரம், கொலறு கை, தேவங்கு, குள்ளி, வெணயம், உன் மூஞ்சில முள்ளெடுத்து சாத்துறேன், தாரித்திரம்!”

She gave us leftovers, cursed freely, and dismissed people with sarcasm sharp enough to slice steel.
She trusted no one — not even her own children — and relied on nobody.
She was insanely rich but a total கஞ்சப்பிசினாரி (miser).
Never spent on anyone, not even herself — a dragon guarding her treasure.

She had ten grandchildren, hated every single one, and scolded us all equally.
None of us liked her much either.
Eventually, we turned it into a game — we’d provoke her just to hear her yell and then giggle among ourselves.
No matter how hard we tried, she never tired.

She knew we didn’t love her. She’d even ask,
“நான் செத்துட்டா நீங்க அழுவிங்களா?”
And we’d boldly say, “No, why would we?”

I lived with her on and off through my childhood — others just visited, I had to live with her.
I accompanied her to hospital visits — not out of love, but because I had no other choice.

Living with her was... exhausting.
She’d ask me to boil milk, then scold me till my ears burned for using the wrong vessel.
Ask for dosa, then yell because I hadn’t scraped the batter bowl properly before putting it back in the fridge.
She’d insist I draw கோலம் every morning — and even if I did, she’d still sulk.
“பெரிய ஊர்ல உலகத்துல இல்லாத கோலம் போட்டுட்டானு பஹுமானம் கோழிக்குற!” .There was no winning with her.

She read every word of the newspaper, watched the news on repeat across channels, and never let us near the TV.
We’d whisper “witch” and run away giggling.

She lost most of her hair due to a skin condition and rarely stepped outside.
Still, for someone who hardly left home, she was more updated on current affairs than anyone else.

She brushed her teeth with சாம்பல், not paste.
Cooked, cleaned, and washed her own clothes till her last days.

She may have been bitter, loud, and miserly —
But the woman who never opened her purse for anyone once gave me ₹2,00,000 for a college fee.
That was her love language — harsh, strange, and wordless.

Now that I’m older, I understand why she was bitter.
She had no one she could trust; everyone around her was after her money.
She was a lonely soul, hardened by years of waiting for love that never came.
She wasn’t stingy — maybe just frugal — shaped by fear, not greed.

Whenever I throw away food, I still hear her yell in my head.
When I boil milk, make dosa, or draw கோலம், her voice echoes somewhere within.
When I listen to the news, I think of her. Sadly, I was not able to make it to her funeral as I had board exams and was in a different city at that time.

Sometimes I wonder — like in Coco — if the dead live on in the memories of those who remember them.
If that’s true, maybe she’s still around, because I still think of her.
Maybe I’m the only one keeping her alive.

Thats ஆவுடைத்தாயம்மாள் for you!