A requiem for a great man.
On the 29th of April, it was 19 years to the day when my maternal grandfather left this world, leaving his family to mourn his death, yet many more to celebrate his life. At the time, he was my best friend, my teacher and my go-to guy for any reason permitted within the subjectivities of this universe. That I'm so curious about the oddest of things has a lot to do with the encouragement (and patronage, even) I received from Dadu.
Growing up, he'd spend one month of his summer holidays at his maternal grandparents' in the country. He'd save money through the year - amounting to no more than a couple of rupees, if that - to buy chhola and gur once there. Then, in the sweltering heat, he'd distribute the chhola, gur and water to weary travellers from morning till evening. He did this every day, for thirty days, every year for close to a decade.
After the Partition, he became the head of an inordinately large family. Instead of buckling under the myriad pressures of such a huge responsibility, he made sure that his brothers and sisters, infinite cousins, other distant relatives, and even friends (or relations of friends and/or their friends) from the East received the best possible schooling, and arranged for all their marriages. He did this without arrogance and sought, instead, to infuse all those he'd cared for with the confidence which would supply the strength to stand on their feet.
As the president of the now-defunct Parents' Council of the school in which I spent 15 years of my life, he voluntarily helped an uncountable number of people through their years in school, from getting them in to providing career advice. His famous wit, which sliced like a knife I'm told, flowed from a natural ease and a readiness to look at the bright side of the world.
I don't remember much of him, though. I can only faintly recollect his voice and the memory of his face is now lost to the few pictures that are left hanging on the walls of his loved ones. What I've received from him, though, I hold very close to my heart: the pursuit of truth. I wish that when I've paid my dues and am ready to set sail, the world is closer to how Dadu envisioned it - more peaceful, more hopeful and filled with the sounds of laughter.
Growing up, he'd spend one month of his summer holidays at his maternal grandparents' in the country. He'd save money through the year - amounting to no more than a couple of rupees, if that - to buy chhola and gur once there. Then, in the sweltering heat, he'd distribute the chhola, gur and water to weary travellers from morning till evening. He did this every day, for thirty days, every year for close to a decade.
After the Partition, he became the head of an inordinately large family. Instead of buckling under the myriad pressures of such a huge responsibility, he made sure that his brothers and sisters, infinite cousins, other distant relatives, and even friends (or relations of friends and/or their friends) from the East received the best possible schooling, and arranged for all their marriages. He did this without arrogance and sought, instead, to infuse all those he'd cared for with the confidence which would supply the strength to stand on their feet.
As the president of the now-defunct Parents' Council of the school in which I spent 15 years of my life, he voluntarily helped an uncountable number of people through their years in school, from getting them in to providing career advice. His famous wit, which sliced like a knife I'm told, flowed from a natural ease and a readiness to look at the bright side of the world.
I don't remember much of him, though. I can only faintly recollect his voice and the memory of his face is now lost to the few pictures that are left hanging on the walls of his loved ones. What I've received from him, though, I hold very close to my heart: the pursuit of truth. I wish that when I've paid my dues and am ready to set sail, the world is closer to how Dadu envisioned it - more peaceful, more hopeful and filled with the sounds of laughter.
posted by Anurag at
5:13 PM
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