Dada

This promises to be the most important thing I will ever write. Because for the first time in my life I have something so deep, so heartfelt, so important to say, that I’m sure words will fail to encompass it.

My Grandfather.

A man from times so long ago into the past, that we never had anything in common outside of our blood. But that didn't stop either one of us from loving the other with all of our hearts.

I remember his simple fixed routine. Early to bed, early to rise, exercise, breakfast, walk to the bus stop (always climbing from the front door being a senior citizen), afternoon return and cross-word filling, siesta and back to office, posting his filled crossword and returning home on time.

He filled crossword in one of our names and got numerous monetary rewards for it, beginning from Rs. 10/-, which he dutifully put in our bank accounts. I vividly remember his grey suitcase, in which he stored his things as prized diamonds; pens, pencil, eraser, punch machine, post-card’s, he hated to loan these to us (me and my siblings) because of course we always lost them.Whenever we collected six rupees, he would exchange them for 10. He let us believe we fooled him with a smart deal. Once he read in the newspaper that ‘chocolates are good for health’ and then began the regimen of weekly dairy milk! ; Much to the chagrin of our grandmother. His favorite board game was brain vita, in which he always beat us by getting one marble. His pet dialog was: One thing at the time that too be done well. He always mentioned about the time Nehru came to his school. He was always trying to get us to let him teach us Math, his most favorite subject. Which made us pretend we were sleepy or sick or bone-tired.

My dada is now suffering age related ailments including complete memory loss. His condition is accompanied by partial hearing loss as well as loss of speech. Old age has made walking extremely difficult for him.

This man is now completely dependent on a bunch of people for the most mundane tasks. People to whom he cannot convey what it is that he needs, who will forever be guessing if he’s hungry or in pain or is it nature’s call? He cannot say if he hates the spot he is sitting on or that he prefers different clothes. For he will sit where we lead and put him, sit there for as long as someone appears to carry him to a different place, wear that with which we dress him, drink water as many times as we offer it and eat what we feel is suitable for his condition. And sleep soundly whenever he is put to bed.

He tries talking, often, but it comes out as a string of incomprehensible words, without any sense of volume or pause. Mostly in angry tone, it breaks us that we are unable to decode what was held in that rant.

Sometimes he smiles; the most satisfying feeling in the world is his smile. It portrays a mild recognition. Possibly he was momentarily able to place himself in this confusing world, when realized that he knows the person who just entered the room.

We try to entertain him, as one would entertain an infant, with colorful stuffs, and T.V. and songs. His laughs hard when some sneezes or falls or when we shoo away the crow from the window sill. Yes, he is a child; a heavy child, who cannot be carried, who hits and struggles and has an inexplicable temper.

He cannot bear frayed edges or disorder; he will strain to remove the wrinkle on the pillow case, try to wipe away milk drops from the dining table with his bare hands and will ALWAYS brush away strands of stray hair from my face. After brushing his single tooth, he will always press down his thin white hair with his moist palm, tending towards the maximum possible dapper-ness.

I love my long talks with him, I’m the talker and he’s, the expresser (freshly coined word-alert). His expressions range from irritation to listlessness to smiles and bouts of drowsiness.

Whenever I hug him, I always think of so many poor, aging, diseased persons across the world, doomed to a life of confusion and pain. Walking away endlessly, never being offered water or food, and having lost their sense of imagination or hope!

This unsatisfactory rant ends with a suggestion to offer water (always) and food to those ‘poor-old-crazy’ people we see on the street.