Thatha: In fond memory of a doting grandfather

 I am woken up at 4.25am by a phone call. Initially, I think that it is someone from India who is not aware that I'm in a different timezone. I groggily take a look at my phone. It is my husband. My heart skips a beat because I know too well what it likely means when a loved one calls you in the wee hours of the morning. He says Thatha is no more. I'm driving over to your parents'. I am numb, still waking up, and only shock registers. So many questions come to mind. When? How? Why? The answers reach me from a distance. He passed away in his sleep in the morning. Around 11am. And thus begins the horror of losing another loved one. The last grandparent I had. The one I knew the most. And the one I shared a house with for more than 20 years. And then the aftershocks hit me. I am continents away, and the logistical issues in traveling back home are too many. I will not go, and I will never get to see him again. I will never get to say goodbye. And so, I turn to writing, hoping that wherever he is, this finds a way to reach him. 

My maternal grandfather and I go a long way back. He came to live with us permanently when I was 6, and I had a hard time adjusting to this change. As an only child and the apple of my parents' eye, my house was my kingdom. I treated visitors nicely, but someone coming to live permanently was a very different thing. My parents had very little time for me even before this, and it got worse after he came. Sunday evenings were the only time my workaholic doctor Mom was free and she would choose to spend this time sitting in my grandfather's room chatting. I was furious, but tried to adapt by joining them in their conversation. But my grandfather was a dramatic storyteller and would launch into elaborate stories from his life. He never let me get a word into the conversation, completely monopolizing it. Initially, I was fascinated by his stories, but within a month, I had heard them all. Now, it felt like the same thing on infinite repeat. How narcissistic, I thought. But my Mom was content just listening to him, and told me to think from his perspective. He was in his 70s and very lonely. He had moved to a new city and didn't even speak the language. She told me to be nice to him. I had two options: to sit and silently listen or forgo my Mom's company. I mostly picked the latter but was very disgruntled.

Other changes deepened my annoyance. There was a chair I got as a gift from my paternal grandparents. It was a chair that belonged to my great grandparents, and was passed on along the generations. I really cherished this chair and sat on it every day. But my Mom gave this to my grandpa saying that this was the highest chair in the house and he couldn't sit on anything low. Can't we get him a new chair? I asked. She said I'll get you something else, let him have that. But I didn't want something else. Similarly, we could no longer go on long vacations or trips because he wasn't able to come along and not strong enough to be left alone. And so, the long list continued. I saw him as an outsider invading all that was mine, and could barely get along with him. When I saw him, I saw a long list of negative changes that came into my life with him.

But my parents were at their busiest, and I saw my grandpa a lot more than I saw my parents. We gradually bonded over two joint loves: books and walking. As I write about in this post Solvitur Ambulando, our walks twice a day were filled with conversations about books, poetry and stories. Suddenly, I thought my grandfather was very interesting. I read every book he told me about, and he encouraged me by buying books. Every year, he would make an annual trip to Coimbatore to register himself at the pension office, and he would come back with a whole suitcase of books from Higgin Bothams for me. Imagine a kid whose primary joy in life was reading, and a suitcase full of new books with crisp pages! I would jump in joy and excitement, waiting to get my hands on them. Needless to say, my heart melted, and he found his place in my life. 

He also read voraciously and continued to read well into his 70s until his eyesight was lost completely. Having moved to Bangalore, he wanted to learn the local language Kannada. And he asked me to teach him, a role that I loved as a power-hungry kid. I gave him my previous year's textbooks and we started from the alphabet. He got himself a book and a dozen pencils and showed up promptly to learn every day. I took the classes quite seriously, and gave him many tests and exams, and scolded him generously when he forgot or didn't do well. He kept up the learning for many years, and he learned how to read, write and hold a basic conversation in Kannada. I marveled at his enthusiasm for reading, and his appetite to learn, and his humility in letting a 9 year old kid teach him. Despite the many cognitive obstacles that his advanced age handed out- poor eyesight, hearing and memory - he persisted. Ultimately, his effort and resilience triumphed all other obstacles.

As I grew older, I noticed with great appreciation how little it took for my grandfather to be happy. Every month, he would celebrate the day he received his pension. He would take me to a bakery or sweet shop and buy snacks and goodies for all of us at home. I was initially very puzzled: He has earned for 38 years now and has gotten his pension for at least another 12 years. Has he not gotten used to this feeling of getting paid? Does it still bring him so much happiness? I don't see my parents getting anywhere near excited on payday. But that was him for you. He delighted in things, no matter how small, no matter how routine it felt. He had the same enthusiasm for festivals, always wanting to buy new clothes, shoes, and sweets. My Mom would joke, You and your grandfather have a competition going on for the most number of shoes owned. He would always iron his clothes painstakingly and was meticulous about his appearance, even if all he did was sit at home and take a couple of walks.

Over the last 3 years, I came to appreciate my grandfather and his zest for life even more. While my dad lost all hope and became severely depressed and anxious after his stroke, my grandfather remained calm, a rock solid presence. He went through a lot of illness in the last decade, but he would always bounce back magically, and tell yet another dramatic story about his latest hospitalization. His cognitive abilities remained intact, and his memory and math were razor-sharp. I realized that his attitude to life had a lot to do with his miraculous recovery each time, and it was something really special to witness. I would joke many times that he would easily live to a 100, maybe outlive us all even. Maybe he would be the oldest human being alive. We would all smile imagining this, and we could picture it in our heads very clearly.

But the last year changed everything. He had a fall, and after that we couldn't recognize him. He went from being able to handle all his finances independently to barely being able to speak. He needed a caregiver, a wheelchair and help to even eat. For the first time in my life, when I came back from Rome, I saw my grandfather without the spark in his eye. He had been so excited two weeks back about my first international travel, but I left without telling him the details because I didn't have the time. When I came back, I had the time, but the grandfather I knew all my life had disappeared. I told my Mom mournfully He has lost the will to live. A dozen odd hospitalizations followed, and each time an organ system was said to be failing. Kidneys. Heart, Lungs. I hated life for doing this to him and us. For making him live a year full of pain, suffering and misery. For making us watch him in that state. What could be more cruel?

I had one meaningful interaction with him in the past year where he was fully alert and the veil of illness seemed to have lifted. He looked at me and asked me how I was. I asked him in return. How are you? Are you feeling very alone? He smiled sadly and said: Never less alone than when alone. No one else understood because it sounded so cryptic. My mom said: He's just blabbering something. But I understood. This was a shared quote we had discussed in my childhood, and it was like an inside joke, and something deeply reflective of his thinking too. All my cherished memories came back, and I held his hand and cried. Each time I visited, I was torn between fear and a longing for mercy. Fear that this would be the last time I saw him. Mercy, that it would all end, and that he would go to a better place. But today, all I feel is overwhelming sorrow. I look back on our time so fondly and on our quibbles even more fondly. That chair that was given to him has become intertwined with his identity, and I smile foolishly that I made such a big deal out of it. We took fewer vacations because of him, but my day-to-day life brightened. Although I seemed to be his teacher then, he was mine too, only I didn't know. 

I mourn you today, Thatha, for I was still not ready to lose you. I will miss you so much, especially in all the major milestones in life. I won't have you with me for my PhD graduation. My kids will never get to see you. But I also celebrate you and what you stood for - your resilience, your zeal for life, your love for reading and walking, your dramatic storytelling. These are all part of me now, and this is how I choose to carry you forward with me. I am grateful for all the time I got with you. You were there for my BTech and MTech graduation, my first job, and my wedding. You got to meet my husband and in-laws, and they have good memories of you, too. I will always love you, and I am really sorry for missing your funeral. I hope you read this and smile wherever you are.