There are many ways to cherish Susheela Chitti’s life because she was, in many ways, a multi-faceted lady who couldn’t be pigeonholed into established categories. I remember her as an aunt in whose home we spent numerous summer vacations, basking in her love and affection. I remember her as a woman who held progressive views on parenting and education, even when it went against the tide. I remember her as someone fiercely frank in her opinions, never holding back her views from anyone. She was also a woman who enjoyed the finer things in life without offering any excuses for doing so. As a loving mother, a doting grandmother, an affectionate aunt, a protective sister, an equal companion to her husband, and a great friend to those in her orbit, Susheela Chitti lived a wholesome life. I believe she wouldn’t have wished for anything other than a peaceful passing, free from physical pain and suffering.
English is a weak language when it comes to defining relationships. Everyone other than a mother and sister is referred to as an aunt. The language doesn’t possess the finer nuances that Tamil does, for instance. Translating “Chitti” as “aunt” doesn’t capture the full depth of this relationship. “Chitti” means a younger mother, a mother of the same stature as one’s birth mother, only a little younger and, therefore, a little sweeter and more accommodating. If our mother was angry, we went to our Chitti for solace. And that is what Susheela Chitti was to all of us—a mother figure for all her nephews and nieces. That beautiful but fast-vanishing family tradition of meeting as one family in our grandparents’ home during summer vacations fostered in all of us a deep sense of bonding that time and distance may have dimmed but never obliterated. Even though I haven’t spent much time with Susheela Chitti in recent years, she was always present, an integral part of our family circle. My mother would, on our daily calls, talk about Chitti, and that kept the bond alive and unbroken.
I met Chitti after a decade at Kavya’s wedding reception last year. We visited her Velachery home before the reception as well. She looked tired but had lost none of the sparkle in her eyes or the enthusiasm for conversation. Sai Sharan, her wonderful young grandson, had accompanied Chitti to the reception and made sure she was comfortable. He had clearly grown under her care and love, and it was evident in their relationship that Charan held a special place in his heart for his grandmother. As Chitti and Charan left the hall, I promised her that the next time I came to Chennai, I would visit her. She held my hand, looked at me pensively, and replied, “You do that without fail…” I am sure she knew that life had physically taken us far apart and that such promises might not always be kept, but that didn’t stop her from being optimistic. That was her strength.
I can never forget how Chitti supported Shankar’s decision during his formative years when he chose to quit engineering and pursue a career in HR—a choice that changed his life. Both Chitti and Chittappa backed his decision, but it was Chitti who recognized that her son was cut out for something else. She knew it was okay to stop doing what you didn’t enjoy and pursue your true interests. She honored and respected Shankar’s inner voice and gave him the freedom to choose his path. Another remarkable quality was her ability to see the good in others.
The other day, my sister Latha wrote me a short note on WhatsApp when she heard that Chitti was hospitalized. It’s worth quoting in full because it defines the kind of person Chitti was and her trust in the abilities of those she knew. Here’s the note from Latha: “Susheela mami – I dedicate everything I am today to her. If we were able to pull off a grand wedding, it was solely because of the profession I’m in—a career that was initiated by Susheela mami. I distinctly remember the day, as I was walking past 41 Moosa Street en route to school, she asked me to teach Tamil to little cute Jayyu! I started enjoying the sessions, and Ambi Mama would fondly call me ‘miss.’ Susheela mami paid me seventy-five rupees every month. She is instrumental in the unimaginable fame and fortune the teaching profession has bestowed upon me!”
Chitti’s garlic-infused daal, rice, and potato fry remain one of my favorite dishes to this day. Whenever I make this meal at home in Atlanta, I think of her and unconsciously compare the remembered taste from her hands to my own preparation. It always falls short. There’s something comforting about this combination of garlic and potato that never fails to satisfy me. Those of us who have spent time at Chitti’s place know she was excellent at concocting these delectable dishes—enticing, flavorful, and wholesome at the same time.
In his 1994 masterpiece, How We Die: Reflections on Life’s Final Chapter, Dr. Sherwin Nuland writes that the dignity of death lies in the dignity of the life that preceded it. Susheela lived her life with dignity and grace, and she transitioned to the other side, carrying the sweet fragrance of the beautiful life she lived. She leaves behind a loving family and a battalion of friends and well-wishers. She was a people’s person, finding her God in humanity and service. The rituals and pedantry of formal faith weren’t for her unless she found personal meaning in them. The love, respect, and warmth with which she treated everyone around her broke down all barriers. Those who worked for her rarely left; instead, they became extended family.
I wrote this eulogy, a tribute, during my flight today from Delhi to Mumbai. I didn’t want this to sound scholarly or lengthy, but straight from my heart. It’s hard to believe that we won’t hear Chitti’s voice again in flesh and blood. That fact will take some time to digest. My mom, Lalita Periamma, and Susheela Chitti—the three daughters-in-law of the Narasimham family—were, as my brother says, more like sisters than sisters-in-law. It’s hard to find such unity in modern times. To them, Chitti’s absence will be even more poignant. Still, they have so many fertile memories of their relationship with Chitti over five decades that they can virtually conjure her whenever they wish.
To Shankar, Jayu, and everyone in the immediate family, my deepest condolences. It’s impossible to fully express in words the loss of such a precious bond as a mother. Our prayers, thoughts, and support are with you during this difficult hour. I’ll conclude this note with the first verse from Emily Dickinson’s beautiful poem on death:
“Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.”
Chitti wouldn’t have stopped; Death must have done her the courtesy and requested her to embrace immortality.
I am tearing up sundar