Giving was second nature to Kunchu Aunty
Julia was my mother’s younger sister, and the fifth in a family of six. To her siblings she was simply Kunchu, meaning “dear” in Tamil. To us, her many nieces and nephews, she was Kunchu Aunty. My association with Kunchu Aunty dates back to 1995, when she came to live with us, following my uncle’s sudden death.
Although sickness and hardship robbed Kunchu Aunty of her youthful beauty, they did nothing to dim her love for pretty things. Whether at home or out, she made sure her jewellery matched her clothes. She loved to look good. I recall how she would sit by the window and paint her long fingernails. As the years wore on, wheezes and joint aches became her constant companions. She was as frail as she looked, but this did not stop her from making herself useful in thoughtful ways.
With both my parents working and my sister and I in school, it was quite common for books and clothes, spectacles and wallets, to go missing all the time. While we flapped around the house, frantically looking for our belongings, Kunchu Aunty would lift herself out of her chair and, without being asked, join in the hunt. In the end, it was always she who found our missing things.
Kunchu Aunty devoured the newspapers from cover to cover, her favourite being the sports section. Her interest in sports knew no bounds, and she was an encyclopedia on cricket. Every World Cup and cricket series saw Kunchu Aunty glued to the television, cheering the Lankan players and occasionally hollering words of encouragement and advice. I dare say she was the best armchair cricket coach ever!
She could have continued to live with us or with any of her siblings, but she chose instead to move into an elders’ home. While this decision of hers created quite a stir and set many a tongue wagging, Kunchu Aunty’s reason was simple: She wanted to be independent and live life on her own terms.
Looking back, I realise her last seven or eight years in the elders’ home were the happiest of times for her. She made friends easily and always referred to the residents of the home as “girls.”
She enthusiastically took part in all activities and enjoyed herself immensely. By then her joint aches were quite severe and most days saw her hunched and bent in double. However, at the sound of music she would be up and dancing, only to fall into her chair, panting and breathless. Whenever she became quite ill, my mother would bring her home to recover.
Each time, she came laden with gifts, not just for her children and grandchildren, but also for her brothers and sisters and their spouses, her nieces and nephews, and later for our children as well. Her gifts were one of a kind and unique, simply because she made them herself. Hand-made cards and bookmarks, colourful rugs and table mats she painstakingly sewed, newspaper and magazine articles she had thoughtfully cut out for members of the family, seeds and medical herbs for those with green fingers, all neatly wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Family members living overseas were not forgotten. She wrote them long letters, songs and prayers. These, no doubt, are treasured by the recipients.
Giving to others was second nature to her. This was simply her way of showing how much she cared. When I joined my family in unwrapping Kunchu Aunty’s gifts under the Christmas tree last December, I little knew that this was to be the last time.
In her unassuming way, she had done her final round of giving, excluding none. She even managed to visit a few relatives. Once again, she had given to all who mattered, and two weeks ago she died peacefully in her daughter’s arms. Did she know her time on earth was up? Were the brown paper packages her way of saying a final goodbye?
The world may have known her simply as Julia – a quiet and frail woman who endured life and quietly passed away. But to me she was like her brown paper packages – simple and unobtrusive to the eye until you peeped in and discovered the treasure within.