By Alpana
My memories of my Dadaji[1] are numerous — profound, etched and radiant. I lost my grandfather in March of 2023. Therefore, you will witness grief being poured in the garb of this write up. Emanating heartfelt respect and love his grandchildren preserve in their hearts, it is difficult to comprehend grief. Many being young and thriving in their adulthood, all my cousins reminisce the remains of the day he passed.
Being a married, working parent, life does not give much room to stop the grind and think. There is an unsaid, unwritten normative rush to sustain, to survive and to soar high. Nevertheless, the souls do get sun kissed, the rumbling tummies do find solace in a warm home cooked meal and the minds find sheer joy in observing the cheers and jeers of their kids. Amidst the routine hullabaloo, there are moments offering whiff of fresh air and a dash of seasonal fragrance.
March is followed by April. It’s the month of harvest, month of Baisakhi[2], reaping what was sown to make space for the new. That’s how didactic and instructional nature is in its true sense, gradually progressing at a slow and steady pace. Embracing the untimely rains and hailstorms and yet reviving to thrive in the new day. That’s how grief pertaining to the loss of a grandparent might look like. It pulls you back so that you can consciously chart your future trajectory. The force holds you back in order to pierce the sky with your flight because that force makes us move, march and advance. That’s what we learn from our grandparents. Their relentless effort, how small or minute it might be, helps us to garner the courage and thick skin we must develop to remain afloat.
My Dadaji was an old wise man, true to his words, cool headed and had no qualms about people being judgemental or nosey. Always calling a spade a spade, he would make a statement, almost as firm as a sermon, and take leave, without worrying about what turn his children’s responses.
The constant urge to jump to conclusions gives us major disappointments but my grandparents taught us how to lead a life, sans the hurry, the anxiety and the inevitable will to speed up the tasks. I recall an incident when my Dadaji accompanied me to a district level speech competition because my parents were posted in some other town for a certain period. He had never been to a school, didn’t know how to hold a pen and yet agreed to listen to my speech delivered in English in an assembly of teachers, parents and students. I secured third position in that competition but what stole the thunder was how he reviewed my performance before my parents. In his words, “Sabte badhiya boli. Baaki to ruke thi.” (She spoke flawlessly. Others fumbled many times.) The memory of such observation, coming from a man alien to the academics and yet giving feedback so constructive and encouraging, can never be erased. Such is the magic of grandparents, enchanting, uplifting and promising.
[1] Paternal grandfather
[2] Punjabi New Year
Alpana is an assistant professor in English at Pt. CLS Government College, Sec-14, Karnal, Haryana. She completed her higher education in English literature from University of Delhi. When not teaching or reading, she can be spotted collecting fallen flowers from garden with her toddler.
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