It was on a windy summer monsoon day on Sept 3, 1942, in a small village of Kallatikuttai, located in the South Arcot District in the Madras Presidency of British India, that a baby girl gave her first cries.
She was born to a set of doting parents who owned a small acreage of paddy fields and firewood estate.
They would fittingly name her Vasantha, meaning “spring, Goddess of rain” in Tamil to mark her time of birth.
She was the middle child of three, and the only girl in the family. This was reason enough for her to be loved unconditionally, spared from the harsh arduous daily routine and clothed in all finery to grow into a beautiful village damsel.
Her parents made sure she had a good upbringing and was well schooled in the Tamil language, literature, and prayer rituals. As she transformed into a young debutante, little did she and her parents realise that her calling would come from faraway Malaysia, via a young handsome man, S. Kandasamy, who had set forth to Tamil Nadu in search of a bride.
They were introduced. Kandasamy was smitten and within a week, they were married. He brought Vasantha back to Kuala Lumpur on board the famous ship in those days, the SS Rajulla.
Vasantha was just 21 years old. Coming to a strange land, to a new language, and to a new way of life would have been both exciting and terrifying for a young adult.
She took it in her stride to learn the local language, to cook, and to shop – all previously alien to her. This she did with great panache.
Exactly a year later, in 1964, yours truly was born. Vasantha, my beloved Mum, would have four other children – three girls and one boy – spaced over 10 years.
Mum quickly adapted to the Malaysian way of life. Growing up, I remember her best, bedecked in colourful sarees, joining my Dad and siblings to catch a movie or to go to the temple for prayers.
During functions, many would steal to have a look at this beauty who was my mother.
She had this habit of wearing all things matching and colourful – from sandals to sarees, to bindis and jewellery (mind you, only gold at that!).
I picked up this habit in my later years, much to the chagrin of my husband.
At the age of 48, Mum lost Dad and she took over the mantle of raising the family. Despite losing the love of her life, she never compromised on our upbringing, especially on education, and made sure all the girls graduated with a university degree.
At the time of my father’s passing, my second sister and I were already married. She single-handedly got my three remaining siblings married into good homes.
In later years, she picked up new hobbies – gardening and travelling. She has travelled with her friends to India, Indonesia, China, and Thailand. She is a towering matriarch of our family that would make any offspring proud.
She has been blessed with 14 grandchildren (12 granddaughters and two grandsons). She is proud of the fact that of those, the first 10 have all made it to university – five are dentists, one a veterinary doctor, two teachers, and two are computer engineers. The other four are still schooling.
Today, when I see my mother, I do so with a tinge of sadness. The ravages of time have caught up with her. She is no longer the agile person she once was.
She is fragile and has suffered three falls, and is now confined to her bed. She too, has memory lapses, and that breaks our hearts.
She looks forward to our visits, and when we do, she gets really excited and takes over the helm briefly, instructing us gaily as she once used to.
It makes us all so happy and sad at the same time. It is our fervent prayer that the Good Lord above will be kind to her and give her health back.
She has been our role model and our pillar of strength. We are now in the midst of planning a grand 80th birthday for her – a tribute befitting an icon I am proud to call my Amma.
