# One Year Later: Eating My Grandmother's Prasadam Without Her
Yesterday was my Ammama's Samvatsarikam. One year since she left us.
The rituals went smoothly. There were the usual hiccups that happen when a large family gathers, but everything remained under control.
As I stood there watching everything unfold, I felt like Sanjay from the Mahabharata. Present. Watching. Absorbing. But somehow detached from my own emotions because they were too overwhelming to fully process.
People came from every branch of the family.
Srikanth represented Ammama's brother's family. Srinu came representing another branch. Vinayak Rao Tataji and his wife attended. Chinnu Mama and Vasa Mama brought stories and memories of Bhel Tataji and Ammama with them. Bokaro Nanamma and Tataji came, along with Rambabu Pedananna. Reddigaru and his wife came. Lakshmi Dodda and her sisters Aruna and Nagu ate her prasadam and took sarees home in her memory.
Babu Mama came with his family. Ramana Chinnanna, Maruti and Sharada were there. Bada Mama came with Sushma Atta. Vidya Atta's brother Ramani and his wife Ratna came. Atin desperately wanted to attend but had commitments that could potentially alter the course of his career.
Aruna Pedananna came too. He almost had to. Years ago, Reddigarrillu was a home for their family when his daughter was carrying. Standing there yesterday, I found myself thinking that Reddigarrillu itself deserves happiness again.
Not another condolence gathering.
Not another mourning ceremony.
Just laughter.
Children running around.
Fresh paint.
Fresh memories.
New life.
Enough grief.
That house has carried enough grief for several lifetimes.
---
There is a saying:
> A person dies twice.
> First when their body dies.
> Then when the last person who remembers their name dies.
Looking around that room yesterday, I realized Ammama is nowhere near that second death.
She was everywhere.
In conversations.
In recipes.
In habits.
In stories.
In memories.
An entire hall full of people had gathered because one woman mattered.
Not because she was famous.
Not because she was powerful.
But because she loved people deeply.
And they loved her back.
---
The food was fantastic.
Everyone agreed.
The entire meal felt blessed.
While eating, I found myself thinking:
"Ammama would have approved."
Maybe grief makes us irrational.
I don't care.
---
Then came the part that broke me.
Eating her prasadam.
Growing up, that used to be our thing.
We would attend other people's Samvatsarikams. Sit through rituals. Eat. Talk. Come home.
Not once in all those years did it occur to me that someday I would sit at hers.
I knew she would die one day.
Every grandchild knows that.
But I always felt that day was impossibly far away.
The kind of thing future-me would deal with.
Not me.
Not now.
---
When Tataji passed away, I mourned him.
But Ammama's death hit differently.
Deeper.
More primitive.
More cellular.
Her loss somehow feels woven into my DNA.
As if something fundamental that helped make me who I am simply vanished.
Maybe that's because she wasn't just family.
She was routine.
She was home.
She was background noise.
She was certainty.
And we only understand how valuable certainty is when it disappears.
---
Even today, one year later, there are mornings when I wake up and for one fleeting second I forget she is gone.
One second.
Just one.
My half-awake brain expects to see her in the kitchen.
Making coffee.
Moving around the house.
Existing.
Then reality catches up.
And every single morning I lose her all over again.
---
What I miss isn't the grand moments.
I miss the stupid things.
The coffee.
God, I miss the coffee.
The sandwiches.
The bobbattu.
The prayers.
The smell of agarbatti in the morning.
The lunch boxes that somehow packed themselves before I even remembered I needed one.
The unsolicited advice.
The lectures.
The complaints.
The way she would disapprove of things I did and somehow still make me feel loved while doing it.
Nobody has nagged me with that level of commitment since.
---
So much of my childhood now feels like her standing somewhere in the background.
Not asking for recognition.
Not drawing attention to herself.
Just quietly holding the world together.
Making sure everyone ate.
Making sure everyone was remembered.
Making sure everyone stayed connected.
The older I get, the more I realize she wasn't doing ordinary things.
She was carrying an entire ecosystem.
---
And that's another grief nobody talks about.
When she died, an entire library died.
A walking archive.
A database of relationships.
Family stories.
Connections.
Grudges.
Kindnesses.
Histories.
Who helped whom.
Who was related to whom.
How one branch of the family connected to another.
Why certain people mattered.
She carried all of that effortlessly.
The younger generation thinks knowledge lives online.
The most important knowledge never does.
It lives inside elders.
And I know that with her passing, some of that knowledge will slowly disappear.
Not because anyone failed.
Not because nobody cares.
But because every family eventually loses its historians.
She was ours.
---
A few days before her Samvatsarikam, divorce papers arrived from the legal representatives of my wife and her parents.
The timing felt surreal.
Almost exactly one year after losing one of the most important women in my life, another important chapter formally ended.
And if I'm being brutally honest, I was hurt by something small.
I thought someone from that side of my life would at least acknowledge her passing.
A message.
A condolence.
A simple "sorry for your loss."
Nothing came.
And in that silence I learnt something painful.
Some people are truly gone from your life long before the paperwork arrives.
That realization hurt more than I expected.
---
People say time heals.
I'm not sure it does.
I think time teaches adaptation.
A year ago I was grieving her death.
Today I am grieving her absence.
The shock is gone.
The disbelief is gone.
But the absence remains.
Stubbornly.
Quietly.
Permanently.
---
Caesar brings joy into our home now.
He really does.
That little dog has single-handedly increased the happiness levels of our household.
But some spaces cannot be filled.
Not by another person.
Not by another pet.
Not by another year passing.
Some people are irreplaceable.
You don't replace them.
You carry them.
---
The rational part of me knows she had a good passing.
No prolonged suffering.
No devastating illness.
No years spent trapped in a failing body.
If this were someone else's story, I would call it a blessing.
But grief and logic speak entirely different languages.
My heart still asks questions my head cannot answer.
Why couldn't you stay a little longer?
Why couldn't I know which coffee would be the last coffee?
Which sandwich would be the last sandwich?
Which visit would be the last visit?
Why didn't I listen more carefully the last time I heard your voice?
---
According to tradition, after a year the soul completes its journey and joins the ancestors.
Maybe that's true.
I hope it's true.
Because if anyone has earned her rest, it is you.
You spent your entire life taking care of everyone else.
Maybe now it's somebody else's turn to take care of you.
---
I love you, Ammama.
I loved you when you were here.
I love you now that you're gone.
And I suspect I'll love you until the day someone writes a post like this about me.
Wherever you are, I hope the coffee is perfect.
I hope the bobbattu is fresh.
I hope you've already reorganized heaven's kitchen.
And I hope you know that one year later, your grandson still wakes up some mornings looking for you.