Sooraj..

The bond one shares, with his grand-parents changes over the course of time. The only constant is the love that nurtures this bond and gradually transforms it.

As a toddler, you simply adore them; love them, demand things from them, you are afraid to ask your parents for. You listen to their stories, ask them questions, and compete with other siblings for their undivided attention and praise. As you mature (fancy word for growing old), your sphere changes - Other things gain more importance - friends, girls you want to impress, girls who want to impress you, and then, after your parents insist, bug and threaten you – studies, grab your focus. It’s a phase of life, when you feel, giving your parents your precious time is a like giving away a kidney, who has time to think about grandparents.

But despite this, there are things that don’t escape your pre-occupied brain. On your birthdays, you notice the small envelope of cash, or despite your ears being hooked to the latest song, it’s hard to miss the ring of happiness in your grandmother’s voice, when she calls to speak to your father and you pick up the phone. Then there are other things that you purposefully overlook, like the increasing creases on your grandfather’s face or how hard it is for your grandmother to climb up a couple of stairs. Things that make you realize that it wasn’t just you who grew old.

I had a terrific verbal score on my GRE (thanks to my then girlfriend –now wife), but all those Barron’s words are inadequate to jot down in ink how much I miss my grandparents. There are a million memories, a million unsaid things. This is a humble attempt to do justice to a few of them.

My earliest memory about my grandfather is perhaps when I was a five year old kid. There was a ganapti pandal right next to Lakdi pul in front of Alaka talkies. The interesting part about this pandal was a swiveling ganpati, which would hand out a rajgira ladoo to you, for a rupee or so. I swear I must have had thousands of those ladoos growing up. I think till the age of 5, I have gone to that chowk almost every time, that my parents took me to visit my grandparents. It is quite astonishing; I still have vague memories of holding my grandfathers’ hand, walking down the warm, sunny, narrow streets of Sadashiv Peth, up to the chowk. I have tried hard to figure out, the major attraction, of going there - the swiveling ganpati idol or the rajgira ladoo. I think more than any of that, it was the long walk with my grandfather.

The most vivid memory however is the day before my Hindi Exam paper. My sole Hindi teacher was Bollywood. It is extremely difficult to apply a million Hindi movies, to writing an analysis on Premchand’s prose. I was done with three of my Secondary School certificate papers. For people who don’t know Secondary School Certificate or SSC as it is fondly called, believe me when I say, it is an enormous deal! To empathize with the pressure a fifteen year old feels due to it, - just try and imagine how Greece’s finance ministry must be feeling right now.

The next day was a Friday and was extremely critical, because I had to face a - 50 marks - pain in the butt Hindi exam with a 10 marks compulsory essay question. My grandfather stayed with my uncle during those days. He had done masters in English and Hindi and had done his doctorate on Rabindranath Tagore, I don’t want to brag about my lineage, was just implying that he was superb at Hindi. With half a day left till the dreaded paper, my father realized that Bhau my grandfather, was one of the last cards he had up his sleeve. So braving the boisterous May sun and temperatures ranging in 100s, my father drove my grandfather to our place.

Half an hour after, the summer sun melted, giving way to grey clouds and I gradually discovered that Premchand in fact is a master story teller. Rain pattered on my bedroom window and between steaming cups of Coffee, my grandfather explained half a dozen chapters and almost all poems the textbook had. It was the first time I enjoyed being taught, perhaps even the last time. In retrospect, I think he enjoyed even more than me.

A couple of months passed and my marks were out. I did well, but I just did well. There were people, snooty cousins, and others who had managed more than me. But my grandfather’s happiness knew no bounds. He gifted me his characteristic white envelope with cash in it. This time the envelope felt heavier, than the usual ones he and grandmother handed out. So I tried to peer through it and guess how many notes it held.

“Ajun deu ka” (Do you want some more”) my grandfather asked smiling.

“Nako bhau hech khup ahet”. (No this is way too much!) I said. I genuinely meant it. It was far more than I had expected or wanted.

I called my grandmother “Bebi Aai”. For most of their lives my grandparents stayed with my uncle. But after my grandfather passed away, “Bebi Aai” came to stay with us for 6 -7 months. And those were awesome days. I have talked with her, on almost all possible things I can think of. From movies to songs to stories to exercise and diet, to gossip about other relatives, we had almost everything covered in those 6 months.

The most embarrassing of all memories during that time, was my Second Year Engineering Result. I remember coming home, with 2 ATKTs. To those who don’t know what an ATKT is, let me just tell you the full form – Allowed To Keep the Term. If you have this insulting term scribbled across your University Of Pune Mark list it means that you have flunked quite a few papers, but somehow, by the grace of god or by the mercy of an examiner, you have made it to the next class and are “allowed to keep the term”. My parents were predictably angry and disappointed. After a brief harangue from them, I went into my room, closed the door and sat down. My head was filled with vacuum. After an hour or so, of sitting and doing nothing, I heard my parents leave for some errand. My grandmother wasn’t in the best of shapes, she barely could walk, but I heard gentle footsteps and then a soft knocking on my door. I opened the door and saw her standing outside. She was bent; her forehead showed the wrinkles old age had left. The beauty on her face was still reminiscent of perhaps how pretty she might have been in her youth.

“Thik ahes na” (“are you alright”) she gently asked.

“Ekdum!” (“Ofcourse”) I replied.

“Baher yetos” (“Come out”) she said smiling.

I smiled, and came out and sat next to her. She did not console, did not scold, we did not even discuss marks. We just sat there together watching a movie. If I remember correctly it was “Lakshya”.

Years have passed since my grandfather passed away. I was in 12^th, out of jaundice, focusing on an electronic project the whole day, when he was first admitted to the hospital. Later that evening when my mother told me the news, I could hardly believe my ears. It was sudden, sharp and unexpected. Painful memories! But our family pulled through. He had raised all his five kids to be strong, I guess. No one is impervious to grief, but then again life moves on.

My grandmother passed away a couple of years ago. I was in the States alone. I stood looking out of my apartment that evening silent and lost. My mind was in a vacuum. I think I was half expecting soft footsteps and a smiling face to come around and ask me if I was doing fine.

Life has moved on again. However sometimes a brief stop on the traffic light near Alaka talkies, or Lakshya’s songs playing in the car on the drive to the office, or Premchand’s name in a newspaper, opens up gates to the past and I feel my heart tugged and pulled by the years that went by.