Joy’s Joy of Giving

A little note:
This post was originally titled ‘The Quiet Joy of Giving‘. A friend of Appa, who had experienced his generosity himself, suggested Joy’s Joy of Giving as the title. I loved the suggestion, especially because Joy Mathew is Appa’s name, and the title seemed to capture something so essentially him. It felt so fitting that I decided to change it.

A small thought crossed my mind this evening while I was sipping my Kattan Kaapi (Black Coffee).

A few days ago, I happened to hear my brother’s wife telling her mother something she had noticed about our home. She said that whenever someone visits us, we usually offer them coffee and something to eat. She found it a little unusual because it wasn’t something she had seen everywhere.

And that’s when I realised it too.

My dad had this habit of asking my mum or me to make coffee or juice whenever someone came home. It didn’t matter whether it was a close friend, a neighbour, someone who had come to do some work, or just someone who had dropped by for a quick visit. There always had to be something to offer.

And honestly, we used to get so annoyed with him. Not because we didn’t want to offer them anything, but because we hated washing all those glasses afterwards! Appa would never stop to check whether there was enough sugar, whether we had enough lemons, or whether we were even in the mood to make a glass of juice. If someone had come home, something had to be offered. Sometimes we would quietly murmur under our breath or grumpily get on with it. He never seemed to take it to heart. Or maybe he did, but he never let us know. He would simply carry on with what mattered to him: making sure the person who had come into our home felt welcomed.

My Appa was a very generous person. He had a big heart, and people around us knew him for it. Over the years, he helped many people financially and did countless good things for others. I don’t want to list them all out because then it starts sounding like I’m trying to prove how good he was. That isn’t the point.

The point is that Appa genuinely found joy in giving.

He enjoyed making people feel welcome, cared for and looked after. And he never seemed to think of these things as anything special. For him, it was simply what you did when someone came to you. Even when he was in the hospital after his stroke, things hadn’t really changed. He had lost some of his memory and didn’t recognise a few people who came to see him. But whenever someone visited, he would still ask them, ‘Did you have food?’ and then ask us to get them some coffee. I have honestly lost count of the number of cups of coffee I must have got for the people who came to see Dad. That was just who he was.

There’s another little memory of Appa that I keep thinking about.

Appa and Vasappan Chettan came to Attapady just a day apart. Vasappan Chettan arrived a day before Appa and was one of the first people Appa met when he came to Attapady. He was there with Appa during those early days, later worked with us for a few years, and remained someone Appa knew and cared about.

Years later, when Appa was unwell, Vasappan Chettan came to see him. By then, Appa’s memory had begun to fade. It would come and go. Sometimes he recognised people immediately; sometimes it took him a long time to know who was standing in front of him. But he did recognise Vasappan Chettan that day. Even as his memory was fading, the habit of giving never did. Appa was having his lunch. He could barely eat much by then, but we would still coax him to have something because he had to take his medicines. Some days, all he managed was a little juice or a small piece of fruit.

That day, it was an apple. It turned out to be his last meal. Even though Appa could hardly eat, he broke off a piece of the apple, offered it to Vasappan Chettan, and insisted that he eat it. Vasappan Chettan did not know that he was the last person to receive something from Appa, or that Appa would pass away just a few hours later. He did not know that he was the last person Appa would meet either.

Perhaps Appa did not know any of this either. A few hours later, Appa passed away.

I met Vasappan Chettan recently at a wedding and told him about this. He said, “ Your Appa is still alive…. He is living in my heart and living inside me….” Vasappan Chettan was one of the first people Appa met when he arrived in Attapady. And years later, he was the last person Appa met before he passed away. Their journeys had begun together in Attapady, and somehow, all those years later, they came together again at the very end.

It has been almost three and a half years since Appa passed away. Life has moved on in so many ways. We have grown, changed, and built lives of our own. And yet, somehow, Appa continues to live in the smallest parts of our everyday lives. Appa never sat us down and taught us about generosity. He never had to. He simply lived that way, every single day, until it became a part of us too.

And perhaps that is why, when I look at our coffee plantation today, I sometimes think of those countless cups of coffee Appa made us offer to people who came home.

For him, it was never about the coffee. It was about the person sitting in front of him. It was about making them feel welcome. The coffee was simply one small way of giving.

So, if you ever visit our home and someone offers you a cup of coffee or a glass of juice, know that there is a little bit of Appa in that gesture. Maybe that is how people continue to live after they are gone. Not only in our memories, but in the little things we do without even realizing why.

Maybe that is how Appa is still here. In our home. In our habits. In the way we care for people.

Still giving…. Still living. … Just as he always did….