By Snigdha Agrawal
“Dadu[1]…stop crying! Can’t you see her smile? She must be happy. That’s what you always say, right? Smile equals happy,” said nine-year-old Aanondo, tugging at his grandfather’s hand. His big brown eyes searched Dadu’s tear-filled ones, confused but earnest.
Dadu sniffled and tried to compose himself, wiping his glasses with trembling fingers. “Aanondo baba, it’s not that simple. Your Dida[2]…she’s gone. Forever. I’ll never hear her voice again, never see her smile, never feel her warmth.”
“But Dadu,” Aanondo tilted his head, his brows knitting together, “you told me people we love never really leave us. You said they stay in our hearts. So, is Dida in your heart now?”
Dadu sighed, his chest tightening. Sometimes this little boy sounded like he’d lived a hundred years. “Yes, baba[3], she’s in my heart,” Dadu admitted softly. “But it’s hard. It hurts knowing I can’t talk to her or hold her hand anymore.”
Aanondo climbed onto the bed and settled beside him, placing his small hand on Dadu’s weathered one. “Maybe Dida can still hear you. If you talk to her, she’ll know what you’re feeling. That’s what you told me to do when I miss Ma or Baba[4] when they are out of home, for long, during work trips, remember?”
Dadu gave a weak smile. “Yes, but it’s different. Your Dida was my best friend, my partner. We spent over fifty years together. Fifty years! How do I go on without her?”
Aanondo’s eyes widened. “Fifty years? Whoa! That’s almost as old as the dinosaurs you said weren’t real dinosaurs in the movies!”
Dadu chuckled despite his grief. “Well, not quite, but yes, it’s a long time.”
Aanondo’s face turned serious again. “You always said Dida was your sunshine. Doesn’t the sun come up every day, even when there are clouds? Maybe Dida is still your sunshine—you just need to look harder to find her.”
Dadu stared at the boy, his heart aching and marvelling at the same time. “You think so?”
Aanondo nodded vigorously. “See that picture of her?” He pointed to a framed photo of Dida, her smile as vibrant as a summer morning. “That smile isn’t gone. And you said she loved the garden, right? Maybe when the flowers bloom, that’s her smiling at you. Or when there’s a rainbow, that’s her telling you, ‘I’m here, old man!’”
Dadu laughed—a warm, real laugh. “Old man, huh? Sounds like something she’d say!”
Aanondo beamed, encouraged. “And in me, Dadu! You said I have her mischief in my eyes, her smile, and her kindness in my heart. So, if she’s in me, then she’s not gone, right?”
Dadu’s throat tightened as he pulled Aanondo into a hug. “You’re absolutely right, baba. She’s in you, in me, in everything she touched. I just need to remember that.”
Aanondo leaned back, giving his grandfather a stern look. “So, no more crying, okay? Or not too much. Dida would want you to smile. And I’m here to help. I’ll even smile extra if it helps you see her in me. Deal? Dida had told me to look after you after she’s gone. I’m doing just that.”
Dadu nodded, his voice steadier now. “Deal. You’re a smart boy, Aanondo. Too smart for me sometimes.” Aanondo grinned. Then he puffed out his chest, his tone growing protective. “From now on, I’m in charge of keeping you happy. No frowning allowed. If you’re sad, just tell me, and I’ll fix it, okay?”
Dadu chuckled and kissed Aanondo’s forehead. “Okay, my little protector. We’ll be happy for her.”
“Good,” Aanondo declared, patting Dadu’s hand. “Now, let’s get some tea. Dida always said tea fixes everything!”
Dadu stood, feeling lighter than he had all day. “You’re right, baba. Let’s make some tea—and maybe sneak a biscuit too.”
Aanondo grinned mischievously. “Or two. Dida wouldn’t mind.”
And as they walked hand in hand, Dadu felt the warmth of Aanondo’s tiny grip anchoring him to a love that wasn’t gone, just transformed.
[1] Grandfather
[2] Grandmother
[3] Used as a term of endearment, technically father
[4] Father
Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is an author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies and e-magazines published in India and overseas. A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.
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