remembering "Daddu"

Almost after a year I opened the gates of the room... A room that was filled with smell of memories, old tobacco and sounds ...

'Whose?'...

'Yours'...

'True'...

'True'...

I was 7 when I first sang 'sa re ga ma'...'Do Rae me' for the western classical world... I ran my tiny fingers through the harmonium* (refer dictionary), and a voice from behind guided and sang along. ' not like this...just sing with me'... A voice lost now... I speak of none other than my grandfather... A man who taught me the english and the music I know today.

The lone figure that sat and played solitaire on his cards, the evening ruckus created by him at the card gaming sessions in the neighborhood,the classical music practice, the way he sniffed his tobacco and I hated it, the way he walked slowly and steadily, the ability to laugh at old memories and himself ( I got that art from him), the way he shared the food on his plate with me, the style in which he wore his lungi, the way he yelled when he was mad, laughed when he was happy, his expert knowledge on the economy of india, his experience from the pre independence era, his stories about the british days, his bald head that depicted lines of aging, his slapstick dry humor, the way he held his stick (which was later given away to another old friend of his).... The room filled me up with these memories and visions came alive as if he just walked in and asked me the same old question ...

'Whose...'

'Yours...'

'True??...'

'True!!!...'

Over the years my interactions became fewer... I left home ...I left him... I left the old kiddish ( as per my terms) acquaintances behind and moved on to a bigger arena. He always dreamed a little bigger than me perhaps. I could never understand his bias at times. Never the less I did knew he had an aura about him even though he was no plainer than an ordinary old man. His principles and ideas were often challenged and run over by me, but differences kept us talking at least. In the last few years of his life...he didn't have the capability to talk much...the man that walked miles at the age of 80, could no longer stand... He was growing older and slipping further.

I didn't cry a tear when I saw him lie on the ice the other day when they said they breathed his last. He lay still, redeemed of all the pains and sufferings he bore...physically and emotionally. The blank look on my father's face, when my eyes met his was rude enough to give me a cold shiver. A knock on heaven's door- that's where my grandfather stood...

Perhaps he might forgive me...perhaps I may be able to forgive myself too..but I could not be less thankful...for the numerous other things and talents he identified in me. The best thing he taught me was the ability to laugh at myself, when the world makes me feel am a jester. So be it! Laughter is the best medicine and my grandfather was a living example of the same.

I ve said much and right now as I step out of the room...somewhere the faded voice still calls for me...

'Whose granddaughter are you'

'Yours daddu'

'Is it true?'

Forever yours daddu!