Dear அம்மம்மா

The following short essay is part of a project called 'Dear அம்மம்மா' (Ammamma, or maternal grandmother) by Tamil Survival Stories (@tamilsurvivalstories). The project paid tribute to our grandmothers, mothers and sisters and involves wearing saris that have been passed down in our families. Published by Tamil Culture here, the work focuses on healing generations of trauma, remembering a community dispossessed, honouring mothers still resisting and celebrating our Tamil identity.

I remember அம்மம்மா’s arrival to my family’s home in Melbourne. She and I became best friends. We would spend our time giggling, singing and telling stories. Sometimes her stories were about our family, accompanied by real photographs of life in Jaffna (those beautiful black and white square photographs with the white border). And other times her stories were about animals or Hindu gods. In this way she sparked my imagination, about the world that was ‘home’ and about all things supernatural, spiritual and otherworldly. Through her love and kindness she earned my deep trust and was therefore the only person I would speak Tamil to. My parents spoke to me in Tamil but I would always respond in English. When she passed away in 1994 I stopped speaking Tamil.

When I’m cutting onions for eggplant curry, or grinding cardamom pods for paayaasum, I reflect on how my அம்மம்மா would have carried out these same simple actions, but in a different world. Wearing my அம்மம்மா’s saree is as close as I can come to embodying her experience and understanding her world. What did she live through whilst wearing this sari? What was it like to be her?

My அம்மம்மா, Maheshwari Rajasekaram, was born in 1925. She was one of the brightest children at her school but had to stop attending due to serious illness. She was married at the age of 27 to my grandfather, Muthuthambi Rajasekaram. Despite miscarriages, ongoing ill health and surviving through war, she gave birth to two daughters, Umadevi (my அம்மா) and Kaladevi. She eventually fled to Australia in 1989.

Our lives could not have been more different. The juxtaposition of her saree and the modern setting in this photo series reflects this. Yet we are inextricably connected. A very close friend of mine (Connie Donato-Hunt), soon-to-be mother said to me “my little baby girl in my womb has already developed eggs in her ovaries, so I am not only supporting her life, but potentially the lives of generations to come”. This is the very physical and spiritual connection we have to our mother’s mother.

I am smiling in these photos but part of me was sad to wear அம்மம்மா’s saris. Sad because I miss her, and also because of the loss of language, culture and connection to my place of birth; the result of our escape and assimilation.