He’s been missed, every now and then, for nearly the last 4
years now!
I am the unlikely child of my parents. For a long time now I
have wondered which of my parents have I taken after? For an equally long time
I have been at odds with the answers that kept cropping up. None of them were
convincing enough when stacked up against empirical evidence. Strangely,
through some quirk of coincidence and maybe because of the circumstances that I
have been in lately, I seem to have my answers.
The last one year has not been the easiest one in my life so
far. Beginning of this year, I took the tougher path in search of some larger
goals in life. I am still wondering where I got the courage or the confidence to
do that, considering that there isn’t much demonstrated evidence of either of
these virtues in the family. My decision involved letting go off a certain
predictable growth path in favour of the unknown, yet promising future. At a certain
level, it was the first time when I was aspiring for a way of life, which wasn't
necessarily the accepted norm - as extolled by society around. Up until this
point I had spent most of my life trying to fit in, with the ways of the world.
For the first time, I was trying to break away from the mould and was confident
enough to win while being me.
Now when the going has been tougher than I imagined, I have
also surprised myself with my perseverance. In the absence of results or even
any distinct visibility of the same, I have refused to get bogged down and have
endured. Time shall tell, if this is sheer stubbornness or gut. But the bottom line
– I have surprised myself and uncovered aspects about myself which I was
unaware of.
More than that I think I know who I have taken after – in ways
more than one – it is my grandfather!
My memories of my grandfather are some of the most vivid
ones from my childhood. I have always had a photographic memory and somehow in
my album titled ‘Childhood’ most of the pictures are with him in it. A lot of
them in which he doesn't figure himself, his stories do. I have never been to
his village in Bangladesh, but I am sure I would recognize every tree and every
pond there if I were ever to get there. Some of those pictures have a certain audio
graphic element to them, in the form of his constant humming – as if life was a
song.
I remember spending winter afternoons in his arms, walking
by his side holding his hand on Delhi roads. I owe my first drink to him –
bitter whiskey, every evening, one peg, while watching the news on television. He
never visited our place without a gift for me in his bag. The ritual of
rummaging through his suitcase to discover it, was something we both enjoyed. He
was also my favourite surprise visitor. Nothing else ever made me run down 5
flights of stairs with such glee.
He was the one who taught me that a man is known not by the
brand of shoes he wears but how well he keeps them. A man of the mountains,
which he always was, showed me how the headgear could be man’s best accessory. His
himachali topis, hats and woollen caps all of them epitomized the gentleman he
always was. In spite of the being the man of limited means he was, it was
difficult to spot him in anything but absolutely dapper and freshly ironed
clothes. A distinct sense of colour and style is something he always had. I would
like to believe I inherit some of it from him.
My grandfather spent most his youth nurturing the singular
dream of making men out of my father and uncle. He wanted one son to be a
doctor and the other an engineer – ambitious dreams both, given their
circumstances then. But he endured and kept moving towards this dream of his
without giving in. His sons and destiny both didn't deny him his dreams.
I remember having fared badly in mathematics exams once in
school and the couple of months I spent under his tutelage after that. His belief
was so infectious, from being the average maths-hating kid in class I transformed
into somebody who began cribbing about scoring 99/100 in mathematics thereafter.
That was one of my first lessons in self-belief.
I still go to his house and my grandmother lives there
alone. But everything there is just the way he left it. Not a single photo frame
has moved off the mantelpiece, not a single painting has been taken off the
walls, even the vernier calliper he had in his desk remains where it was. Just
that I keep looking for his spectacles, his half read newspaper, his slippers
in the shoe rack, his Nehru jackets on the hangers and his constant humming
while getting dressed. None of that is there any more.
I cannot forget the excitement in his voice every time I
called him. I am glad he could see me getting married and bless my wife. A proud
head-of-the-family he was seeing his entire clan getting together at my
wedding. He left us a few months after that. But not before he had finished the
task of getting his house whitewashed and repaired – a house he loved and
cherished so much.
Today as I look back, I think I inherit a lot from him. His stubbornness,
disregard for convention, belief in making things happen and not letting them
happen unto him, the penchant for style and the finer things in life all keep
making appearances in my life as well. I wish he were around today to see where
his journey has brought all of us today – a journey he started with a few
rupees and a broken pair of slippers in Kolkata.
