West Coasts: A story for my sister

Michelle Sindha Thomas

GOD’S OWN COUNTRY | KOTTAYAM 1900-1977

II: BABY THOMAS

I learn the story of their childhood from Aunty Lucy—prim, serious, distant, of the chin-length bob and Greek salad recipe—because Babyammachi never felt the need to tell us anything much before we were adults and she died at a ripe old age, always found a way to shut down our attempts at conversation with a disinclined “yes” or, more typically, “no.” You took pleasure in provoking her, painting her nails blue while she was sleeping or asking her to list the contents of her cabinets to pass time when Mama made us talk to her on the phone—which Babyammachi did not mind. She found you familiar, your earth, your purple-red blood and small forehead like hers, she maybe even found you charming. She told us she was “peculiar,” as if to ward us off. She carried a hand towel and put it down before she sat on our chairs. At her place, she kept decorative objects displayed in their packets and covered her brown 1970s furniture with thick plastic wrapping. A plastic runner also spanned the entire length of her flat. She wore sturdy glasses and brown or navy polyester pants and loose tops with a particular under-tummy drawstring—or a brown sari on special days—and a long, thick, pragmatic ponytail. She was small and matte and resisted eye contact like an unhappy button mushroom: “You don’t want anything to drink do you?” and how she sighed when we did want something to drink after our long drive just to visit her and she begrudgingly pulled out absolutely minuscule yellow-flowered cups, pouring us each a sip of grape juice. Remember the first time she babysat us? I was fully 12 years old and I called Mama and Papa on their way to the airport, crying for them not to leave us with her. The entire week, she pored over the newspaper and her tiny prayer book, looking up only to tell me “no” when I asked her if she could teach me how to embroider; I wanted to sew a rose on a handkerchief for Mama. I taught myself how to embroider that week, I wanted it so badly. Maybe that was the lesson.

David, Michelle, Cherie, Babyammachi, Ruby, Jeffrey

Over the years, I just stopped trying to engage. I am only now trying again to understand Babyammachi, asking questions long after she has gone, wanting to make sense of her and to forgive her. 

“Do you know any songs, Babyammachi?” She did teach us one song, do you remember? “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” She stopped her tuneless recital to emphasize an underlying message, alternative and alien to our former understanding of the song, raising her voice because we were in the pool, of all places, and not paying enough attention: “Did you hear that? Life is BUT a dream.”

“There are some things you should know about your grandmother,” Aunty Lucy told me.

Thresiamma had given birth to eight children: Clara, our grandmother, the eldest but the smallest and thus nicknamed “Baby.” Janet, who grew up to become a nun. Philomena who did not become a nun. Twins Lucy and Agnes; Agnes also became a nun. James the engineer, and John the baby who grew up to become a bon vivant. Marykutty, the firstborn, had died in childhood. 

This is the first I had ever heard of Marykutty: “We had an older sister but she died when she was only three,” Aunty Lucy said, “I still have a photo of Marykutty in her burial casket, with my father looking at her.” I was so surprised, I did not think to ask follow-up questions: Was she sick? Was there an accident? Baby Clara was born when Marykutty was about three years old, and their mother struggled with postpartum depression. The shock of losing Marykutty broke her depression, but infant Clara spent the first months of life in a family plunged in grief, mourning their firstborn. 

Despite this early tragedy, Thresiamma and L.C. Isaac settled into an acceptance of the situation and, with the help of family and domestic caregivers, gave Baby Clara the attention a child deserves, followed by plenty of siblings. She seems to have relished her role as the big sister: “I want to tell you that your grandmother was very talented,” Aunty Lucy said. She played harmonium when the family sang at night and said their prayers. She used to make dresses for her sisters, said Aunty Lucy: “When my twin sister and I were eight years old, on All Saints’ Day, we took our holy communion and your grandmother made dresses for us, for me and my twin.” She recalled every detail of the fabric: “It was not a true white and not a shiny satin, it was like a Chinese satin. We had a Singer machine and she made us beautiful dresses with several layers from the waist down so they would flow. Your great-grandparents also wanted to give us a tea party, so they invited our family and neighbors and all the teachers from our school; it was not a Catholic school, but they invited everyone to the house and we had a nice tea party that day.” She continued, “For Christmas we would each also have a new dress. Your grandma would make all the dresses.” I am a little upset by this anecdote because I am still offended Babyammachi wouldn’t teach me how to embroider when I asked. “Well, I never saw her doing embroidery,” Aunty Lucy maintained.

Babyammachi in college

Babyammachi was a strong student and attended St. Ann School in Kottayam, then CMS College for her undergraduate degree. “Your grandmother was also a very neatly dressed person,” Aunty Lucy said, proffering a detail that I, frilly and fanciful, might find interesting, “When you knew her she was different, but before she got married and all, she was the one in the house who was always dressed so nicely, saris spic and span and stiffly ironed.” I responded skeptically, and she conceded: “She was well dressed but people didn’t call her well dressed and all that,” then renewed her defense with the adoration of a little sister, emphasizing, before changing the contended topic, “Your grandmother was a very neat person, always made sure everything was clean.” After graduating from CMS College, Babyammachi decided to become an English teacher and went to Trivandrum University for her teaching degree.

Meanwhile, Lucy finished chemistry and physics degrees in Chenganasherry and was back in Kottayam, figuring out what she wanted to do with her life. She had declined an invitation to the University of Rome; she was not ready to leave India and thought she might teach for a while and eventually go to a medical college in Kerala. Philomena had already gone to St. Agnes College in the state of Mangalore to teach physics and had married and settled after two years. She called Lucy to let her know the chemistry lab was looking for a demonstrator and was she interested? Lucy took the position and began teaching chemistry, but her interest was diverted: “At that time,” she said, “There was an American social work professor who had started a new degree program at St. Agnes College.” In light of her upbringing, with her parents’ emphasis on public service and altruism, Aunty Lucy was drawn to the program—she joined the School of Social Work and found her calling.

* 

Uncle James, center, and family

Papa and Mama and I went to Kottayam last year to see Babyammachi’s brother James, now the patriarch, his wife Leelamma, and all his children, gathered for the winter holidays. They are practical people and had their day packed with activity. Uncle James still had a sharp mind, filling in the gaps and correcting dates and details of Aunty Lucy’s stories. His daughter, a gynecologist, saw patients in the morning, hosted us for a lunch that finished sharply at the stated end time, and had the maids quickly transition to dinner preparations for her college friends in town for a wedding. Her efficiency and sheer steadiness of energy reminded me of you. This side of the family has particular affection for you, even though you visited them what, once? For an hour? There is an integrity, solidity, and stubbornness to you, clear markers that you are their own, down to the fixed and purposeful facial features. I, on the other hand, spent most of the visit talking to an uncle-by-marriage who loves gardening and cooking and happily sent his son to culinary school. There is something frothy, melodramatic, and impractical about me that does not resonate with the stoic Lachumthara family line, but I like to imagine that I am amusing to those soft floating dreamers who marry in: the gardening uncle, Aunty Leelamma, who squeezed my cheeks and waved goodbye until we drove out of her sight, and I imagine, too, Babyammachi’s husband, Papa’s father, our grandfather.

Kurian Thomas

Kurian Thomas had a shape-shifting quality to his face, shared by Uncle Syriac, James, Kevin, and me—the glimmer and echo of him continuing faintly in one son, two grandsons, one granddaughter. Our hair is unpredictable and disobedient, our features gentle and unfixed; we look different from every angle and in every photograph, our smiles are crooked and shy.

“We called your grandfather Kunnya, meaning, ‘Dear One,’” Aunty Lucy told me, “He was known as the best dressed man in town. In those days, most young men wore a mundu and shirt, but he would wear a bush shirt and trousers. He always walked very straight and whatever he wore was very neat.” He grew up in Ambalapurra, near Alleppy, where Babyammachi was also born: “His family was a very good family, well-known, educated. He had a bachelors in mathematics and a degree in teaching,” Aunty Lucy said, thinking he must have studied in Madras. “In those days, that was a high education,” she went on, “His whole family, they were teaching and all, three boys and two girls. He had a brother who was an older person, also a teacher. You know Mercy and all? Mercy’s father. All these people were highly educated in this family. There was another brother, Gregory, who went to Africa in the 1950s. He was also very tall and well dressed, in fact, they wanted Babyammachi to marry Gregory but our father did not want her to settle in Africa. They had a sister, Chechamma, who was a math teacher and was very pretty. She was not married but she was well respected.” I marveled at her lack of pity for Chechamma and started to understand why Papa’s side of the family never seems to feel sorry for me in my perpetual solitude. They easily comprehend that I’m a hard one to match and that life goes on; they’ve seen it before: “When your Uncle Ike was in high school and Chechamma used to come and teach him math, he would do well. The whole family was so nice. Not only nice, but they were smart and educated people,” she emphasized, in case it hadn’t yet sunken in, “They led a very good life, they were decent people. You should be very proud of your grandfather’s side. And your grandfather was a very nice man.” 

Gregory and family in Africa

Babyammachi on her wedding day

L.C. Isaac arranged for Kurian Thomas to marry his daughter, Baby. Their wedding was grand, as the first in the family, with relatives and neighbors joining  the elaborate preparations. “Did they even like each other?” I wondered aloud, unable to imagine Babyammachi as a coquette as I regarded her wedding photo, even with the start of a smile curving her mouth, the necklace of tiny diamonds and sapphires arranged in floral shapes which she incongruously, eventually left to me. Lucy was startled: “Of course! There is no question about it! They weren’t like people are in this country, kissing in public—they wouldn’t show off like that—but they respected each other.” I must work harder to understand quiet, understated love when all I know are spontaneous declarations and PDA followed by arguments in public and swift, violent, irrevocable coolings off.

Kurian and Baby Thomas

Babyammachi was about 24 years old when she married, and both she and her husband went to work in Pallai as teachers. They were respected professionals in this community; even Aunty Jaya’s mother, who was not yet involved with our family, remembers them teaching at St. Thomas School. Kurian had a reputation for fairness to the extreme, applying principles of justice to even small everyday matters: If two shopkeepers in close proximity were selling bananas, he would buy a kilo from each. Baby and Kurian Thomas took walks together in the evening; people from Pallai remember this detail with fascination (Jeffrey’s wife, three generations removed, tells me) because they found it so very modern that a husband and wife would promenade in town as peers, with so much to say to one another, in 1950s rural Kerala. They often went back to Kottayam to see the family and Aunty Lucy remembered them always together in various activities, playing badminton on the front lawn. 

Soon, Babyammachi gave birth to their sons Syriac and Isaac. While the family was not dependent on her income, she chose to continue teaching and hired a nanny to care for the children. This is the first glimpse of a Babyammachi I recognize, yet I can appreciate her interest in her work and indifference to tradition. Kurian indulged Babyammachi’s preferences, supported her decisions, and made her family his own. “Sometimes your grandfather would come and give me some money,” said Aunty Lucy, “Seventy rupees was a lot of money at that time. Kunnya was an extremely nice person. He always had a big smile, talked very nicely, you could tell he was smart and nice,” she paused, before she started crying.

Kurian Thomas with his students

By his early 30s, Kurian Thomas was known as a talented mathematics teacher, beloved by his students. Uncle Ike even met one of them lately in America, who remembers him as the most well-dressed person (Uncle Ike also fondly describes his neat collection of ties), disciplined, passionate about his work and deeply involved with school activities. One day, Kurian was taking his students for an excursion—on the way, by the time they left Pallai and neared Kottayam, he felt a pain in his chest. He was admitted to the district hospital in Kottayam, where Babyammachi’s mother Thresiamma rushed immediately. The chest pain developed into a heart attack. “I think in those days,” Aunty Lucy said, “they did not have modern methods of CPR or EKG tests available, nor did people recognize all the symptoms of heart disease. He was not heavy and he never smoked.” Thresiamma stayed with him, comforting him, fervently saying prayers and hoping for recovery, with Kurian repeating the prayers after her. While Babyammachi was still in Pallai, she took solace in knowing that Kunnya was not alone, her mother was there to support him and was with him when, after two hours of suffering, he passed away. “That’s what I want you to know,” Aunty Lucy said, “He died in a very nice way. It was not a sudden death, but he was with our mother.” She had been in Mangalore, studying: “In those days you could not come right back. Or even know right away.” 

Kurian Thomas was buried in Kottayam. He was survived by his wife, Baby, now 28, and sons, Syriac, four years old, Isaac, two years, and Jacob, six months.

Babyammachi took on an identity and a refrain that she would not shake off and actively vocalized for the rest of her long life: “I am a widow with three young sons.”

Mama says Babyammachi also maintained a superstition: “Everyone I love dies.”

She moved the children in with her family in Kottayam and took a teaching position in Ramapuram, an hour away by bus. L.C. Isaac had encouraged her to take a job away from the mounting responsibilities at home so she could recover from the shock and rest. Everyone in the family was impacted by the loss: This is when Janet and Agnes decided to become nuns and dedicate their lives to prayer on behalf of the three dear fatherless boys. Thresiamma cared for them during the week with the aid of two domestic helpers and in time, the boys began to believe Thresiamma and L.C. Isaac were their own parents; Babyammachi would only come home to them on the weekends. When she was home, she busied herself with school paperwork and grading student assignments. “She had a hard life that way,” Aunty Lucy said, “Your dad and all didn’t attach to her like a mother. I can see that.”

Babyammachi with little Papa

West Coasts: A story for my sister

Michelle Sindha Thomas

GOD’S OWN COUNTRY | KOTTAYAM 1900-1977

I: L.C. ISAAC

Agreed, Kottayam is kind of a middle of nowhere place, but this saved us from the bloodshed and struggle experienced in other regions as India drove towards independence—it is, after all, our somewhere. At the turn of the 19th century, our ancestors were tucked away inland, out of colonial sight and mind, well-behaved armchair activists living in domestic Dravidian bliss. 

In 1838, CMS College moved to its present campus on a beautiful elevation in Kottayam, forested with feathery casuarina trees, with views of the Western Ghat mountain range. Benjamin Bailey, the founding principal, also served as architect of the school and chapel, fusing Victorian Gothic style with local structural archetypes including outdoor breezeways, clay tile roofs, and carved stairways of dark precious wood. He went on to establish the first printing press in Kerala in 1846, publishing the world’s first English-Malayalam dictionary, the first Malayalam-English dictionary, soon followed by a translation of the Bible to Malayalam. In addition to Malayalam and English, the press responded to demand for publications in Tamil, Sanskrit, Syriac, and other Indian and foreign languages.

The college printing office grew to become CMS Press, a full-scale publishing house that put Kottayam on the map as a hub of the newspaper, magazine, and book publishing industry to this day, when over 80% of the books published in Kerala are from Kottayam, over thirty periodicals are published in Kottayam, along with the Mathrubhoomi, Deshabhimani, Madhyamam, and Deepika newspapers. The Malayalam Manorama, published in Kottayam, is one of the largest circulating daily papers in India. Kerala boasts 99% literacy; we of Kottayam, the quiet and shy of Aksharanagari—“The Land of Letters”—declare 100% literacy, our proudest claim to fame.

In the 1900s, Maharaja Sri Mulam Tirunal increased government spending on education in Kerala to 15 times the expenditure of previous years. He dramatically increased the public works allotment and, while the royal family’s spending remained conservative, he advocated for bold developments that raised the revenue of the state. He advanced the visionary, reformist agenda established by his forbears, his administration acquiring for the kingdom of Travancore the colonial title, “Model State of India.”

By 1901, Kottayam had just over 17,500 residents: a population of students and professors were drawn in by CMS College along with writers and others who contributed to the growing publishing industry, creating organizations for professional and political support such as the Malayali Social Union and the Literary Workers’ Cooperative Society. While still a small town, Kottayam was on the forefront of progressive movements and social reform initiatives, earning a reputation as a center for cultural life, intellectual discourse, and political agitation. One of the first demands for social justice, the Malayali Memorial, was a response to the government policy of appointing officers from other states to the most important administrative positions controlling trade and commerce in Kerala, even when well-qualified locals were available to serve. While 10,037 angry Malayalis signed the petition, even in rebellion they were mild-mannered, drafting out their requests at the Kottayam Public Library and presenting them to the maharajah in written form.

One such gentle rebel, our great-grandfather Lachumthara Chacko Isaac, found his place in Kottayam and put down roots for the rest of us. L.C. Isaac grew up in Kuttanad, a backwaters region where people traveled by boat, where his parents had a farm and paddy fields. He was a bright, inquisitive youth and when he came of age, his marriage was arranged to a girl from Alleppey, a relatively cosmopolitan port city of lagoons, canals, and bridges—“The Venice of the East.” Our great-grandmother Thresiamma was educated at an English-medium convent school run by foreign nuns; she complemented her husband, taking pride in both the secular and religious education of their children, reading the Bible to them in English every night.

After marriage, L.C. Isaac finished his degree in journalism and went to work as a field reporter for Deepika, the oldest circulating Malayalam-language daily, known for innovative journalism with a focus on advocacy and social progress. His principles aligned with the mission of the paper, as published in their first issue on January 3, 1927: 

To represent the needs of the common man to the rulers

To protect and safeguard the inalienable rights of the people

To fight for Truth, Justice, and Freedom and to unite the separated brethren of Kerala

In service to these goals, Deepika often hired reporters with a background in law, and some even maintained a practice. The paper saw great potential in L.C. Isaac from his coverage of the capital of Trivandrum, and sent him to study law. At the time there were no law schools in Kerala, so he completed his studies at Madras University.  

Upon his return, L.C. Isaac was celebrated as the first person from Kuttanad to earn a law degree. He first practiced at court in Alleppey—but he was a highly principled idealist and quickly became disillusioned with the nature of his profession. He found himself defending clients he knew in his heart were guilty and could not bear to go on protecting. Over time, he leaned his practice towards legal theory and civic engagement, continuing to work as a journalist and soon earning a position as an editor at Malabar Mail in Cochin. In 1935, he and Thresiamma moved their family—now including children Clara (a.k.a “Baby”), Janet, Philomena, and twins Lucy and Agnes—from Alleppey to Cochin. He began teaching, his reputation grew, and the family stayed in Cochin just long enough for the birth of their first son, James, when Deepika called L.C. Isaac to join them once again—this time, as chief editor.

While I hardly relate to our relatives on the Thomas side, even the most eccentric ones somehow still mild, mannerly, conservative, I am ever fascinated by this great-grandfather born at the turn of the 20th century, a boy from the countryside who raised his own children with priorities and values that were so modern in the world of that moment, let alone in the context of his Kerala Catholic community. When I have any sort of scholarly or artistic achievement, Papa won’t say too much, because he doesn’t want me to get a big head, but he smiles softly and says, your great-grandfather would have been proud of you. Papa knew him only as an old man and once told me to ask our grandmother what he was like. Babyammachi was hard to approach, and I put off the topic until it was too late. So, before we lost her, I begged our grand-aunt Lucy—so distant she was more of an acquaintance than an aunty—to tell me more about him. When she got sick, my desperation intensified and I called her in Chicago at all hours; on weekdays she would say, “No, I’m going to the doctor, now is not a good time.” I called her on Sundays and she said, “No, I’m going to church, now is not a good time.” After many weeks of persistence she asked me to list my questions so she could prepare for the conversation. She noted the questions and hung up. A few weeks later, she finally called me and shared what she could remember. Aunty Lucy and Babyammachi are still as foreign to my spirit as ever, but L.C. Isaac has come alive—mild, mannerly, maintained, but also intellectually energetic, inspiring, an ideal.

The family moved again and settled near Deepika headquarters in Kottayam. L.C. Isaac took this opportunity to quit law and fully remove himself from situations that troubled his conscience. Even though he shifted his focus to writing and editing, he became renowned as a principled legal professional, serving as an advisor to individuals, families, and businesses. He and his family were showered with appreciation; Aunty Lucy told me, “When we were young, we didn’t make cake and all at home. In those days it was not very easy and it was something very expensive. We were eager for Christmas; my father was a legal advisor for many companies, and they wanted to reward him around Christmastime. We had a famous bakery in Kottayam, and they made excellent fruitcake and all. On Christmas Eve, we would go to church for midnight mass, knowing that when we went back home there would be lots of cake waiting for us. So we would all sit through the mass, excited to go back and have cake.” I guess that’s why we have always taken fruitcake when we visited her.

Our great-grandfather became so admired as a mentor that writers were always visiting to discuss ideas with him; publishers would send manuscripts and request his input, asking him to read works in advance of publication to write the forward or a review for the paper. Aunty Lucy said, “We used to have a room filled with books we could read anytime. Our house was like a big library. Any new magazine, any new book written, the publishers would all send that to our house. We used to get all the newspapers, all the books, not only that, all the English newspapers, foreign magazines, we got all of it. That is how I got interested,” she said, giving me the first key to understanding why she broke from the comfort of tradition and the rest of us now have lives in the United States: “The foreign magazines interested me, with all those photos of far-off places and good food. That is how I got interested in living abroad, those magazines attracted me, all the good things.” Our stoic grand-aunt was once little Lucy in the library, studying exotic lands in glossy magazines and saying, “I want to go somewhere like that.” Lucy studied chemistry and physics, preparing for a career in medicine. She was accepted to the University of Rome medical school. Her parents encouraged her, but neither pushed nor pulled her, supporting her sensitively: “I felt nervous to go to Rome. My father told me, ‘I don’t want you to go now,’ only because he sensed I was nervous and gave me an excuse to decline.” My general ambivalence towards Aunty Lucy replaced with something like outrage when I realized she could have pioneered our way to fabulous dolce vita Rome instead of Chicago. She shrugged it off, “My close friend went to Italy and became a doctor. I meet her sometimes.”

Interestingly, our sour Babyammachi was the first child who was musically inclined. Her father arranged for a Carnatic music teacher to visit the house and teach the children. Baby and Agnes  took quickly to their lessons and every night, during prayer time, they would lead the family in song; Baby became so enthusiastic about the harmonium that even when the family went out of town for holidays they would lug it along for her to play. When the youngest, Johnny, came along many years later, they arranged for the same teacher. Johnny became passionate about music and his parents encouraged him to hold rehearsals with his friends at their house, which was full of life, good company and artistic productivity. James loved photography and built a darkroom at home to develop his work. Another teacher was arranged to instruct the girls in classical dance, and Philomena excelled at bharat natayam. 

L.C. Isaac further took an interest in herbominerals and started a medical store. The business did so well that he was able to create work for his nephews, bringing them to Kottayam and introducing them to the potential for financial advancement beyond the limited opportunities of their ancestral village. The studious of his young relatives followed his steps and took positions at Deepika. He was the patriarch of the extended family, respected and beloved. “My father understood the value of education,” Aunty Lucy told me, “he didn’t build big buildings with his money, he helped others. You should feel proud of him.” While he retained the family property in Kuttunad, he rented the house in Kottayam and never invested in real estate or land; I wonder if he was influenced by a certain growing political ideology of the time, while good Catholic Aunty Lucy said simply, “He wasn’t materialistic at all.” He wanted his daughters, sons, and relatives to be well educated, self-sufficient, to support themselves. He took them along for his public engagements and trained them for public speaking, encouraging them to enter local speech competitions. Can you believe Babyammachi once gave prize-winning speeches!?  

L.C. Isaac, center

By the 1930s, the population of Kottayam was over 25,000, comprised of landlords and farmers, writers and members of the publishing industry, employees and affiliates of CMS college which, by 1938, began to admit female students. Ever in tune, L.C. Isaac and Thresiamma founded Vanitharamam, a magazine for women. Deepika newspaper printed the publication, full of articles and fiction by professional writers with occasional contributions from their daughters. “When you visit me, I’ll show you the magazine,” Aunty Lucy said, “You will see articles with photos of Indira Gandhi and all that. And cartoons.” She shared my love for graphic design and waxed rhapsodic over the ads: “You should see all the English advertisements. It is very cute and you will see the advertisements of some stores in Kottayam. St. Mary’s Hostel, CMS College. Catholic Bank of India. Ads, pictures, there are lots of ads for gold and ornaments places. When you come you can see that.”

I have consumed too much material about India from a Western lens, too many histories and movies and books, and I was confused by this intellectual, all-Indian India she described, the 1930s magazine with English ads directed to Malayali women, with no mention whatsoever of Englishmen. I asked her about the nature of the colonial, pre-Independence era in Kottayam, or what she understood of it as a child in the ‘30s and ‘40s: “We didn’t have that many British people in Kottayam. At CMS college, there were some, but we didn’t have daily contact with them. There was a school across our house in Kottayam, and there were some English people there, but there was no conflict. It was very peaceful in those days. The convent was nice and we children were taught very well.” I was relieved to hear one Indian story in which colonizers are background noise, irrelevant to the immediate events.

Decades later, L.C. Isaac is still cherished in Kottayam; historians mention him as one of the great writers of Kerala. Just lately, Uncle James received a note of thanks and a collection of letters between his father and a local official that details how he helped one professor N.P. Paul surmount obstacles and raise the funds to open a tutorial college. L.C. Isaac was open-minded, supporting Lucy when she eventually decided to move to the US in the 1960s, an unmarried, ambitious young woman seeking adventure in a country admitting Asians for the first time since the Barred Zone Immigration Act of 1917. He must have understood her drive; his brothers had been content to stay in Kuttanad while he wanted to explore and experience more. While he was a religious man and honored tradition, he made liberal accommodations for personal choice. When James had finished his studies and began working, L.C. Isaac had a conversation with him: “Son, now you’re on your own. There are a lot of marriage proposals coming. I would like to know if you have already selected someone—if you are in love with someone, please let us know.” Before L.C. Isaac responded to any of the proposals on behalf of his son, he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t impede an existing love affair.

L.C. Isaac died on May 3, 1968. He had wanted tea from the teashop that morning, and little Papa was sent off to fetch it. Papa returned with the tea; his grandfather drank it and went to sleep. Later, Papa was walking past his grandfather’s room, saw him nearly fall from his bed, and realized something was wrong. He ran to his grandmother: “Ammachi, come soon! Appachin is falling off the bed!”

L.C. Isaac and Babyammachi, standing from left. Syriac, Ike, and Papa seated from left.

L.C. Isaac created a cocoon for those in his care, characterized by a purity and righteousness manifest in his legacy: There are writers and educators among us, nuns, ministers, lawyers, doctors, engineers, psychologists, musicians, artists, accountants, a college principal. For me, however, one persistent image looms over it all: Babyammachi burying her nose in the newspaper, an ostrich with her head in the sand, ignoring her sons (especially Papa because he had abandoned Catholicism and chosen Mama), and later her grandchildren (especially you and me, because we were the fruits of betrayal). Did the newspaper connect her to a simpler time? Did the scent of ink on newsprint comfort her? Did a fixation on current events prevent rumination on the past, did current events, to be consumed at any cost, keep her in the present? Did she avoid engaging with us because we reminded her of those who were gone? Papa and I refuse to stay long in situations after we have become disillusioned, we cannot bear to stay in positions that grate our sense of authenticity and personal moral code—we can be very black and white and maybe perpetually naive in that way—we pick up, even at great personal risk, move on, change direction, and repeat and repeat.