ABBA

My grandmother often kisses my hands, says they remind her of my grandfather’s. My grandfather, who ceases to exist for the rest of the world is alive in our memories and will continue to live there as long as we remain.

This write up was put down in the winter of 2019. I share it hoping the sentiment with which it’s written makes you feel something if not teach anything.

On 8th of April 2018, exactly at 12 in the noon, he left for the heavenly abode. Not that I didn’t believe in death earlier, but his parting affirmed this belief. As I sit next to my grandmother this chilly morning, watching the snow as it falls, through the blue-shaded glass windowpanes of my uncles’ kitchen, I’m reminded of many instances that spoke volumes about the greatness of my beloved grandfather and since my father was the only child he had and amongst my brothers and I, it was I who always received more affection from that blessed soul, I feel like it’s my responsibility to introduce his personality to those who didn’t know him. I’ll try my best to present to the readers what he was truly like and more importantly, what my bond with him was like.

I would address him as Abba and he would call me didi. I know what you’re thinking, since didi is used for elder sister in our part of the world. Actually he had gotten used to calling me that because my younger brother would call me so. I have to admit it did irritate me when I was young, I mean it doesn’t make sense, right? But I never told him not to call me that and eventually got used to it. I often get flashbacks of how he used to literally scream Didiyo whenever he’d need to see me and how I would leave whatever the heck I’d be doing and rush with urgency, mostly so that he’d stop shouting because he would call out my name continuously without pause until I showed up and he’d do so at the top of his voice as if he wanted to make sure the entire neighbourhood listened. But what will surprise you here is that out of ten times, nine times he’d summon me not because he needed something but to ask if I needed anything. He’d be asking questions like, “syoun Kya ranav aaz?” meaning what shall we have for dinner tonight, or “kenh maa kyeakh?” meaning do you want to have something. And when I’d nod in negative he’d be like “tsoattè chu chani khoathè chalaakh“, meaning your brother is cleverer than you are. He had a nickname for everyone in the family, like for example ‘tsoattè‘ for my little brother, which means “the small one” in kashmiri.

I have to say, Abba was a charming person. He had a remarkable fashion sense. The way he walked and talked made him look like some leader. He had a political mindset and was argus-eyed; undoubtedly he would’ve made a great leader given a chance. On the contrary, when it came to family he never let us down. He cared for everyone in the family in his own unique way. As for me and my siblings, he was the one who introduced us to chocolates. I never knew how he managed to buy us every new biscuit or snack in the market before rest of the kids even knew their names. Whenever we wanted to buy trendy clothes it was he we’d approach, for father seemed a bit uncompromising in this case. Not only this, he’d also play games with us with the enthusiasm of an eight year old. And since I was his favourite grandchild, he never started his meals unless he’d given me a piece of whatever the delicacy he was having; this routine however changed after he got diagnosed with chest illness. When I was in hostel he’d call me atleast twice every single day. For elder members of the family, he had a different approach. He used to sit on the verandah of our house for most of the day and wouldn’t go inside until my father had returned from work. He’d tell my brother to call him repeatedly in case he didn’t show up on time. I can see his love for my grandmother in every tear that flows from her eyes in his memory.

When I was done with my B.Tech in 2017, I got to stay home for a year since I couldn’t make it for P.G. admission that year. Initially I was in depression because of it. A year’s break in studies is not an easy thing to deal with, but gradually I started to feel normal, thanks to my family. However one thing that I’ll always regret is not being able to sit and spend some quality time with my grandfather during that period. I could see how weak he had become but we believed his chest would get better once the season changes, as it used to. I so wanted to sit near him and listen to the old stories he’d tell every guest who visited him, even if they didn’t make sense to me. But I had my limitations. Had I known he wouldn’t be here for long, may be I’d have prioritised accordingly. But this is how death is, cruel and unforgiving. It always leaves behind some regret.

You must be thinking every sensible man does and should treat his family the way he did, so what makes this man special. Well to love one’s own child is easy for that comes naturally, but to love the adopted child and his children with as much ardour is what makes his story different and worth sharing.

My grandfather, as I’ve known him, was a man of very short temperament. I had a certain image of him, which wasn’t much of a gentleman, despite the fact that he loved me and so did I. He had his charm no doubt, but there was something about his personality that made him look angry most of the times. I always knew there’s a soft person beneath that face but what was apparent couldn’t be ignored. However, in the last few months of his life he seemed to be a changed man. He seemed to be the person that I always knew he was but hadn’t seen. He had calm on his face and stillness. The way he’d call for someone didn’t sound of urgency anymore. He appeared to be so pure and innocent. He had fallen ill a number of times earlier and each time it would be a hassle especially for my grandmother who was so devoted to her husband that she nearly worshipped him. But the day he left us, things were so normal that none of us could have anticipated it would end the way it did. His death looked so full of ease that we thought he’d only fainted. My brother kept telling my father “he’s not dead”, “he’ll wake up”, “he’ll wake up”; he wouldn’t give up until my father assured him that he won’t. So peaceful was the final moment of my beloved and deeply missed grandfather. I can’t conclude without mentioning that although he wasn’t much of a mosque-goer, qalimah was always on his lips no matter what. You could know he’s returned by hearing him say “lailahaillallah” loudly every time he entered the house and thankfully those were his last words too. Now that he is gone, and we’ll have to go too someday, all I pray for is his afterlife to be far more beautiful than his life was.