Representative image of a school classroom.
Credit: iStock Photo
Warm, kind, and a wealth of knowledge, my grandmother, Channira Ponnamna Mandappa, was a woman of substance. As children, my sister and I would excitedly anticipate the holidays and travel to Bittangala, the village in Kodagu where my grandparents lived.
Mamma, as she was addressed by everyone close to her—except my grandfather, who called her ‘pon’ meaning gold—was the head of the social welfare board at Kolar and a talented songwriter. She used the name of the then-prime minister, Indira Gandhi, in a song she penned when she was invited, along with other chairpersons and their entourages, to Delhi.
After her retirement, she founded a Mahila Samaj in Bittangala to support underprivileged women.
Whether it was cooking or tailoring, she made sure they learned life skills to support themselves. She would also teach them music and dance. She had a few natural remedies that worked like magic. She cured one of my uncles, a doctor himself, of a persistent earache with some oil. He swears by the oil and says he hasn’t had an earache in 40 years.
She taught us to cook in a fun and non-obtrusive manner. She would add a spice, saying, ‘Variety is the spice of life,’ twirl a little, and sing a bit, and soon there would be a delectable feast. She taught us bhajans and hymns at night, thereby inculcating spirituality.
She tried to teach my sister and me needlework. My sister proved to be a better student while I sneaked into my grandfather’s room to read his books on Indian mythology and Shakespeare because I didn’t have an eye for a needle. However, Mamma taught me to cross-stitch on matted fabric, which I picked up quickly. Pinterest, Instagram, or WhatsApp are no match for her depth of knowledge. Her house was like a finishing school. She taught us phrases, and new words both in English and Kodava, our mother tongue. Upon venturing outdoors, we would offer prayers to the local deity (Bittangala is home to one of the rarest Brahma temples in India). She made sure we knew our extended family by inviting them over for a meal. We learned to keep an eye on the cattle, be allowed to catch fish and crabs, and sometimes we would come upon tadpoles!
She would respond to invitations in a poetic way rather than a drab reply and taught us how to be impeccably groomed. Her enthusiasm was infectious. Even my daughter is taken in by it. She calls her chidiya thai following her rendition of a song on birds (chidiya).
She counseled us to be thrifty and generous, firm and kind, strong and sensitive, grateful and worry-free, and, above all, to forgive and forget. I wish I had compiled all the songs and dramas she had penned; I wish I could be as gentle and yet strong as her.
My mamma, true to her name, Ponamma, was pure gold!