Achachan-this simple, affectionate name carried decades of love, laughter, and stories. It’s what his children, grandchildren, and Amma called him. And on 31st January 2026, he quietly closed the chapter of his physical journey on earth, leaving behind an emptiness none of us were prepared for.
For me, his daughter‑in‑law, my relationship with him over the past 16 years was built through small but meaningful exchanges: sharing life’s updates, being the occasional messenger to his son, and piecing together the story of the younger, bolder, stylishly‑experimental version of him through tales narrated by those who knew him best.
Funny how grief works-we’ve spoken more about him in the past week than we did in the last decade and a half. Maybe that’s the mind’s way of coping… filling the sudden, unexplainable void with memories, imagination, and stories that keep him alive.
Why I Decided to Write This
The last one and a half months of his life were perhaps his most painful moments and yet they were filled with deeply human, unforgettable flashes of tenderness. Writing this is my small way of ensuring that time doesn’t quietly erase what deserves to be remembered.
The Independent Man Who Wanted Only Amma
If there is one thing that defined Achachan all his life, it was independence. He never wanted to depend on anyone… except Amma.
By early December, he began losing the ability to speak clearly. When we reached for Christmas vacation, his words had already shrunk to gestures, sounds, and expressive glances.
Yet his stubborn independence remained untouched.
I remember one moment clearly: he was trying to stand up by himself, experimenting with different ways to rise without help. His face showed both determination and curiosity. Then Amma walked toward him, her arms stretched out like a mother encouraging her toddler.He looked at her first, then at me, with a smile that said:“Look at her… I’m not a baby!”
And then, with quiet acceptance, he let her help him stand.
That smile-rare, radiant, and fleeting felt like a blessing from a man once known for his booming laughter that echoed through the neighborhood.
The Man Who Lived by the Clock
Punctuality wasn’t just a habit for him, it was a way of life.
Every evening at 7:30 PM, he would slowly walk to his usual place for prayers.
If any of us were late, he didn’t complain. He simply stared at the clock until we understood the silent signal.
After the family prayer ended, he continued his private conversation with God. Even when his fingers could no longer count the rosary beads, he held onto them until his hands gave up. Watching him express his pain and faith simultaneously was a powerful reminder of how little we truly understand life, suffering, or surrender.
Curiosity That Never Aged
Even when he struggled to swallow food, Achachan remembered the exact count of his medicines. One morning, when a pill was missing from the set, he stared at it with deep suspicion. Only after we explained the prescription change did he open his mouth to take it.
His curiosity was legendary. He hated traveling, yet he knew world geography like a seasoned explorer from conversations with his sons, newspapers, and a natural thirst to understand the world.
From Strict Father to Soft-Hearted Grandfather
While I never witnessed his famously strict side (and yes, I’m quietly grateful!), I saw the evolved version of him:
a father-in-law adjusting to working women,
a gentle grandfather trying to leave behind happy memories,
a man learning to change with time.
His sons- two grounded, value-driven gentlemen are proof of the impact he left behind.
Witnessing His Final Journey
Achachan’s funeral was the first full ceremony I ever attended. As days pass, grief will soften, and memories will take center stage. Life will resume its old pace, and the chaos of everyday routines will try to overshadow his presence.
But I know this: he will still watch over us with that loud laughter and louder voice saying,“Very good, very good… I’m glad you’re learning to move forward.”
And move forward we will-carrying him with us.
Every time we sit together in the Alleppey balcony, under the slow-moving fan, next to the easy chair you loved, I know your stories will continue to resurface. New ones will appear, old ones will reappear and you will live on through all of them.
See you on the other side, Achacha. Until then, stay close through memories, stories, and the love you planted in all of us.
Anecdotes of the ordinary 
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