Appacha
When I was 7, my grandfather was the tallest person in the world. He towered over the rest of the family when we gathered in the evening to pray; the patriarch of the house, starting every prayer as we followed along and setting the tempo as we sang. However, when my brother started shooting up as well, I started to realize that I was mistaken. Having friends who were so tall, my neck hurt to look at their faces further drove home the realization. It never hurt to look at Appacha. His face was stern when he wasn’t doing anything but he still radiated kindness. Shy toddlers who hid behind their mothers when approached by any of us would happily swing their feet next to Appacha, and he would engage with them with equal vigour. He was a man who was universally liked, a man without a selfish bone in his body, who had never said an unkind word about anyone in all the years I had known him.
