Ann Patchett and a Love Letter to Life

About "These Precious Days" and my grandmother.

Ann Patchett came to me on a cold November morning. The boys had flown to their respective nests and Maon (Mow, Maonie, Zen Master) and I had the whole house to ourselves. Among the pile of unread books on my bedside table, I don’t know why I picked up, “These Precious Days”. Perhaps, it was the picture of Ann’s pup Sparky on the cover page. Sparky—his one ear flopping down, his other one piqued, has his chin resting on a red pillow. His entire attention is focused on a point close by. This site tells you that Sparky’s “interests include styling snazzy sweaters (see above), burying treats to enjoy later, and napping while his mom writes. He loves to pop into Parnassus and offer book recommendations in exchange for attention.” 

My own Maon’s (Mow, Maonie, Zen Master) interests include grooming his scratching post as though it were his baby, preying upon his toy mouse religiously every morning and falling asleep with it resting under his paws, watching agog as the pigeons and doves flap their wings outside my window etc., etc.  

Ann Patchett ‘s book came to me when my own life was brimming with possibilities and yet the bleakness of it terrified me at times. I began questioning my own worth as a writer, coach, and mother. Personal essay being my favorite genre of writing, I began wondering how could one write about the personal without being seemingly self-absorbed or self-indulgent? How? 

I think my body sensed these questions and every morning along with my morning cup of tea, I found myself picking up “These Precious Days” and bringing it to the sofa. And here, I would sit reading until the light filled the sky outside and Maon demanded to be fed.  

I read the book in no specific order. Sometimes, I would scan the Contents page to see if any title was catching my interest. At other times, I would open the book randomly to a page, go to the beginning of that essay and start reading. And that is how yesterday morning, I happened to open the page to the titular essay, “These Precious Days”.   

Ann and Sooki. 

Sooki and Ann. 

If the entire book was like a forest trek, this essay was like a sunlit patch where one sat, held hands, shared stories, ate, wept and fell into deep pockets of silence. 

“People are not comprised entirely of their facts, after all,” Ann writes as she describes the unfolding of her friendship with Sooki. Sooki  Raphael—a brilliant artist, assistant to Tom Hanks, dazzling Ann with her luminosity and grace shares with Ann in her own quiet manner that she has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.  

This essay is not just about Sooki fighting cancer although it is that too. It is about a friendship coming alive, gathering hues with every passing day, every passing moment. Ann and Sooki planning their evening dinner, Sooki and Karl bonding over their love for planes, Ann and Sooki doing yoga together, the house wafting with the aroma of chickpeas and roses. As I read the essay, I felt held and supported as though wrapped in a warm, fleecy blanket. The earth felt infinitely tender, and... 

 I remembered my maternal grandmother...my Ammamma.   

How is it that when death hovers over a person, more life, more aliveness is infused into the relationships of that person?  

Ammamma died of pancreatic cancer. Yet during that time, with tubes and myriads of equipment attached to her body, when even the act of breathing seemed mammoth, she had deep conversations with my mom. Or should I say long conversations? Secrets would tumble and spill forth from her belly and within those stark hospital walls, Amma and Ammamma would cease being mother and daughter and instead become little girls playing with pebbles on a beach.  

“I told them, I will marry him only,” she told Amma once, remembering the day she first saw my grandfather at the traditional matchmaking event. 

“And they agreed?” asked Amma although she knew how the story ended.  

“Of course not! Who would give their daughter to a man who was struggling financially and riddled with so many responsibilities?” 

Now they were no longer little girls. They were teens running amidst verdant sugarcane fields.  

“Then what did you do?” asked mom, catching her breath.  

“I went without food for two days,” giggled Ammamma. Amma giggled. I giggled when years later Amma told me this.  

Ammamma. Sweet Ammamma. Going without food for the boy she wanted to marry. Marrying the boy, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Ammamma born in the time when women were told to silence their voices choosing to speak during that one time because her heart fluttered and spilled over when she saw the boy in front of her.  

Where does love end and pathos begin or are they wedded to each other forever like fire and... warmth?  

Outside of those conversations, the chaos only multiplied. Hospital bills. Empathetic doctors, callous doctors. Supportive staff, apathetic staff. A house overflowing with adults, babies, teenagers and the elderly. Leaves to be managed. Trips to be planned. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Hair falling in clumps.  And amidst these conversations...conversations which were like oases amidst a raging desert storm. Conversations to which both the women would return to again and again and again through the coming days.  

Ammamma would talk about how her mothers and aunts would spend their entire days in kitchens, napping near the hearths in the afternoons so that they could wake up and make coffee for the entire household without wasting much time.   

“Of course, making coffee on the hearth needed more time, but it never occurred to them to go and demand to sleep in the comfort of their own rooms. That was how it was ra...Vijaya Papa,” she would tell my mother holding her palm.  

“I got down to doing the normal household chores 21 days after my delivery because of an event in the family.... again, it never occurred to me to talk. Perhaps had I said something, they would have listened.” 

“Oh Ammamma...they would have listened,” I say to myself as I type this, “You know how to make folks listen...” And for some reason that makes me happy. And I chuckle.   

When I read the last lines of “A Day at Beach” in the essay collection, I sat there for a long, long time staring at the sky, an unfathomable heaviness settling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to hold the heaviness, kiss it and set it free. But I could not...because it was there... within me and that was okay too.  

I say goodbye to Sooki in the driveway. “We keep doing this,” I say. For once, I am making an effort not to cry, or cry less. 

“Let’s keep doing this”, she says, “Let’s do this forever.” 

It's 6AM as I type this. Two streets away, my father sprinkles mixture on the floor of his balcony. Crows come swooping in, and my father talks to them, addressing them one by one. He calls them his elders. The first elder is his father. Then his mother arrives. Then brothers and sisters. In-laws.  Uncles and Aunts. Neice. Son-in-law. Friends. Best friends. With every passing year, the number of elders only keeps increasing. But my father’s voice is the same-- filled with cheer, joie de vivre and ...love. It's as though every morning he is telling his elders, “Rest in peace you folks. The world is a beautiful place still...” 

The world is a beautiful place still... 

 Yes, Dad it is.  

Thanks for the reminder.  

Warmly, 

S