Dada: Grandfather was the best example

Dada

Grandfather was the best example

 

Grandfather was the best example. So I wrote his name neatly on my exam sheet. The hall was abuzz; pencils scribbling and paper scraping against each other as the examination time neared the final bell to submit. “I have a handsome grandfather”. I wrote in my best cursive. With two minutes to go, I was done with my examination answers. The teacher quickly found my hitherto bobbing hand raised meekly above the heads of surrounding students. The smell of fresh paper brushed against my nose as ma’am picked up my answer sheet without looking at my desk. My pencil was knocked to the floor. The question paper crashed silently at the feet of ma’am herself. She apologized quickly and threw a glance at the last question, circled by my very own pencil as I had prodded a lot before answering that one. “Q4. Make a sentence with the word ‘grand’ ”. Ma’am let her eyes rest on my face before returning me the paper. Then she turned and allowed me to exit the class room before anyone else. 

 I picked my bag up clumsily (with an oversized clipboard, a stationary equipment pouch and a bulging Tiffin box stuffed inside) and found my way towards my green colored bus. I’d be home in another fifteen minutes. I plucked my water bottle from around my neck and thrust it to my lips. Maybe if the senior students don’t get down chatting with their friends again, the bus could start five minutes early. I shifted nervously in my seat. Thinking about situations that aren’t going to happen always made me uncomfortable. When I reach home however, I’d have to tell all that happened in school today. Like I always do. Today was an examination day, so just three hours of school doesn’t give much scope of storytelling. But I wanted to tell Dada about how he had inspired one of my answers. He would be so happy. Imagine if I had written “I have a pretty grandmother” instead of my original answer, Dada would probably be so furious. I sniggered at the thought of him becoming angry at Dadi for doing nothing, literally. The bus growled to life as if in a panic, the engine coughed and wheezed for a good ten seconds before pumping dense black smoke out the ignition box. Everyday routine. Maybe it would never be a good idea to park a white colored vehicle near our school bus. I smiled thinking if my very own WagonR became black because of my school bus. Then I quickly frowned. It wasn’t a good idea. It was horrible, think of how much cleaning it would require afterwards. And what if Dada was sitting inside? He already has that awful breathing problem doesn’t he? No God no, it would be horrific for his health to breathe in such air. He anyway wakes up so early in the morning to get a bit of fresh air, plus all his medicines will eventually finish and he hasn’t got a refill yet-maybe I should ask him if he has. Yes, today while playing taash I’ll ask him. Dadi might know too but she has her own medicines to take care of. Phew. Growing up just increases your medicine intake. I wondered if I had already begun growing up because I was fed Aspirin a week ago when I had a headache. That was because I had stared at the fireworks in the sky for too long during Diwali celebrations. I felt silly for getting a headache but even so, mummy and papa had run me down to the bed room and made me go to sleep after treating my eyes to the painful eye drop medicine. However, I could still see Dada peeking in through the half shut door. He was not outside with all the elders and the neighbors. I dozed off in a heartbeat. 

The next week, I had a lucky escape-and an unfortunate incident simultaneously. I had tried to climb up the slippery hood of my WagonR, while the mechanic tried his best to straighten the damaged number-plate on the front hood. I was able to climb up his chair and hoist myself up on the car, waiting for someone to notice me besides the mechanic (who evidently wasn’t paying much attention to me). I slipped as easily as can be imagined, and at the very last second before my fall, the mechanic pulled me towards the front hood. He broke my fall, nevertheless I broke my foot. Actually, just the flesh on my right foot as it bled (thanks to the sharp edged number-plate hanging loosely on the hood). I was numb in my leg within seconds so when the mechanic asked whether I was in pain, I just managed a “No, thank you”. Then walking towards the front door, I stifled the emerging pain into a tearless whine and yelled for help. Dada was most worried. The doctor was emotionless with the words. “Tetanus”. “Injection”. “Dressing”. The house came down to my feet. Everybody asked the newly-nearly-handicapped boy “How are you feeling”, and “Is it paining?”. Dada soon intervened. He made it a point to not let anyone remind me of the wound as long as he was sitting beside me (which was for most part of the day). I cannot say I was particularly thankful because I liked all the attention I was getting. Anyway, I began to notice his daily routine more closely in this manner. He spent a lot of time jotting down his thoughts on random pieces of paper and did unending calculations on any scrap of newspaper around him. He made good use of his time walking on the lawn and injudiciously spitting across the grass as if to mark his territory. I wondered how he had so much saliva.

Dadi told stories before I slept and I was learning to walk again on my own. In two weeks time, I was ready to go to school again. If no more than to catch up on what I had lost, I had to show everybody the white bandaging on my right foot. It was the most outstanding foot in the class. I’m pretty sure all my class mates were impressed. When I came back home, Dadi affirmed my doubts that my friends were very much jealous of my bandage. I wondered whether any of them wished that they too should scrape their right foot on a rusted metal plate. But they couldn’t use the number-plate on my car anymore because it had been removed. Dada had ensured it. 

....

One morning, I woke up before my alarm because there was a phone ringing. When mummy had put the receiver down, she called my class teacher to notify my absence for the day. The silence dropped eerily in the dawn bathed walls of my room. Dada had passed away. I would later go to his funeral in the coming week. January took an unexpected turn of events this way. I spent time looking at people’s faces as they cried near Dadi. Dadi was shell shocked. When she spoke next, she let the sun hit her eyes gently in the morning, “Achhi zindagi jiye (He lived a good life)”

There was a crowd at the ceremony when his pyre was built and graced by the God of fire. The smoke burnt in dense black. I remembered how Dada would have objected to such pollutant smoke. As if listening to me, the sun chased away all clouds rather swiftly. There was a clear sky when we left. The ceremony had been grand. People talked politely about Dada when they left, and while they did not miss taking prasad from the pooja, they missed my grandfather more.

It had indeed been grand. It had to be. Grand ceremonies always happen for grand people. And grandfather was the best example.