The heirloom of obeisance.

 The helm of the saree hid the light skimming off the scrubbed silver. It was too early to strip her off her humanity, the lifelessness still looked like a calm sleep. Ammu wondered what she would've done had she been alive- her ammumma, whom she lovingly called Ammu, almost like sealing the bond they shared by calling each other the same name. 

Ammu would've smiled at everyone, inwardly fretting about milk, tea powder or enough chips and murukku for such a large group of people.  She would've muttered to herself about not stocking enough for everyone, would've walked in with her signature apologetic smile and the constant clinking of the anklet, while serving her creamy chaya and whatever snacks she salvaged from her children and grandchildren. 

The anklet came to define her grandmother for Ammu. As a child, she had been quite awed by the sound and it sounded to her like the siren of help coming her way to rescue her from her mother's lessons and impending punishments.  As she grew, she came to recognise the constant clink on her grandmother's feet as a symbol of something unlike the rest of visible personality- a reminder of the potential for single-minded fierceness so unlike her. 

This change of perspective was courtesy the cliched  story session every grandchild associated with indulgent grandparents. It was her Dadu who would tell her stories, ammu would be the omnipresence in the kitchen at these times, felt through the whistle or the cooker or the aroma of fritters. The only indication that she wasn't oblivious to her husband's and granddaughter's bonding were the barely detectable variations in the pitch of the anklet clinks as she walked around the kitchen. 

Ammu remembers Dadu's sheepish smile when she asked to hear the story of the anklet. It was the time when she was growing a brain and some opinions for herself. Maybe that fear of being exposed as  another person, one who wouldn't- couldn't- paint a generous picture of themselves was behind his reluctance and embarrassment, Ammu never got to ask. 

The anklet was a gift- from ammu to herself. A cheap compensation for the dreams fated to echo in the hollow chambers of her heart. As a woman who was made to marry quite young, ammu grew up in her husband's and his families' shadow. They moulded her thoughts and opinions according to their needs and conveniences. She grew to accept it- it the way someone who had no choice did. (Ofcourse, these insights never made it  to Dadu's story, these were courtesy Ammu's own interpretation skills.) 

As a couple, Dadu and ammu bonded very late into their fifties, when Dadu felt his strength (and more scarily, his dominance) starting seep away, and had come to rely on ammu's help, almost like suddenly opening his eyes to the light source that was beside him all the time. 

Before this patch of roses though, were the 'thorns', as Dadu described it. Ammu asked that she be gifted- Dadu said. He couldn't decide whether to be embarrassed at her audacity or his callousness. It was around the time when her mother- their child- had been taught enough dance for the stage, and had her 'arangettam' approaching. Dadu tried reasoning with ammu about the lack of finances to invest in gold then. Ammu solved that dilemma by expressing her love for silver jewellery in quiet but firm terms. Dadu tried a different tactic- he mocked her desperation in having to 'ask' to be gifted. She had waited for him sense the irony, when she found him oblivious, she replaced calm grace with hysterical desperation- drawing parallels between her existence in his life and the overlooked machine supplements in the kitchen, citing examples of neighbourhood women who always showed up at the vendor's wearing trinkets and sarees- gifts from husbands who did care. 

Dadu was seeing this new woman with an awe quite unlike him. He didn't want to test her limits but he did lack finances. So, compelled by the flaws in budgeting, he had to endure her accusing stares and sad resignation and make peace with his increasing discomfort with himself. 

Finally, Dadu chose an anklet. He didn't so much as present it to her as he did shove it at her face with condescending looks. Ammu was taken aback- she only did what the others did and it now she had proof that it did work. She couldn't understand his derision then- when he got upset over petty things like under-salted food, he usually reacted by pushing his plate away in disgust and muttering to himself about "some people who supposedly had more cares than looking after their family". Ammu decided her antics had also packed only a proportionate amount of drama and entitlement. Later on, she came to realise that entitlement was something she had to give up at the altar of societal acceptance, unlike her husband, whose claim to social acceptance came attached with his penis and surname. 

Ammu would be quite a bit older when she deduced these insights from Dadu's story of her grandmother's stubbornness- sure, not as old as her grandmother when She realised and slowly came to accept- sometimes the chafing, sometimes very becoming, sometimes the attractive dip of her anklets as she did her pre-scheduled life of cycles of sometimes being similar to the grinder, sometimes being the cherished mother of two indulgent children and sometimes the strong presence in her husband's indecision. The anklet came to represent all possibilities of a life staved off and a life parallelly accepted- a metaphor for her grandmother. 

It was this anklet that caught her father's eye when grandmother's body was taken to be cremated. He insisted they take it off her, and argued that such valuables cannot be left to rot. Ammu saw her mother's eyes fill with indecision, saw them look at her father and his entitled agency in her own house, saw resignation as he directed someone to remove it. 

Ammu heard her own voice- "Acha! Ath amoommaykk swantmaya otta sadanam aanu. Athu avde kedakkendathaan! "

Ammu saw him look at her- his face a mix of mockery at her authority, a hint of pride at her outspokenness and thorough exasperation at her lack of pragmatism. 

"Mindathe irikk Ammu!" Her mom stepped in to chastise her, and Ammu felt herself shrinking. 

Her father then proceeded to remove his mother-in law's anklet and gift it to his daughter - "ithu nee tanne vacho! Vashi kanikkan oru samayavum sthalavum und Ammu! "

All the while, Ammu saw her own mother stand and smile her grandmother's apologetic smile at the people gathered. In a few minutes, Ammu would see her fretting over enough milk, enough cups to serve them all. She would also see her father sitting with the guests, his occasional banter broken to yell "Geeta, moonu chayayum koodeye!" 

The usually hooked and circled anklet- a symbol of assertion of will- was open now. Ammu carefully straightened it out and laid it out unhooked in her toy jewellery box. She wouldn't fall into that spiral of obeisance, Ammu decided, she wouldn't punctuate her unwavering  voice with apologetic smiles and self worth-evaluation. She would break that cycle. At her funeral, her grandchildren wouldn't be shushed, wouldn't have to shrink for having voiced their opinion. She would never hook that anklet again, she decided, she would never close that spiral again.