He left his best with me

City breds that live in joint families- a fast disappearing breed,I am one of them. Brought up in the heart of an industrial city, my sister and I lived with four uncles, an aunt, grandparents and a whole lot of visiting 'relatives', who walked in and out all through the year. Those where the days when visitors gave children fresh one rupee coins before they waved bye bye. The fun in the parents' resisting and the guest insisting and the child simply staring- it will soon be unheard off I am sure.

Despite all the talking,laughing and playing that was so much a part of the family, silence and mystery shrouded my Grandad. No one chit chatted with him, no one laughed with him, no one asked him questions, no one scolded him. The only thing I remember somebody doing ' with him' was to play chess. The lone friend who called on him was Mr. Singh, the only friend that called him up was S.R.Naidu.

He was an active man though- took a walk in the morning, prayed fervently, chopped wood for the fire, cycled to the store, read voraciously, smoked or chewed tobacoo a little, undertook frequent civil engineering surveys and slept a sound sleep.

My first interactions with him began when I was three and started going to Pre-KG. He walked me to, and from the school. Thus started for me an enduring relationship- one that grew stronger by the day and lasted 30 years. By the time I was seven, I was running to the petty shop to buy him cigarrettes and 'nizam lady' (chewable tobacco). In a year's time I had learnt the names and prizes of every brand of local cigaratte that existed then. He took my sister and I on a little trip to ooty when I was 10. He took us to a very unlikely children's spot. The church yard of St.Stephen's church ooty. The number of epitaphs I read on that one single day out number all the epitaphs I have read ever since. Then he showed me the most important tombstone there- the tombstone of Mrs. Henrietta Sullivan. John Sullivan was a British collector of coimbatore who founded the queen of hills in the 1800s.

When I turned 12 my grandfather told me "try and memorise Mathew chapter 5, 6 and 7, and whenever you do it I will give you a prize". I never promised him I would and have not done it till date. Wheezing struck be down badly when I was 16 and he told me "the power of the human mind is immense, keep telling yourself that you will recover and you will not worsen". He had introduced me to the concept of autosuggestion. Suddenly one day I asked every adult in the family, "when is grandad's birthday?", they said the did not know. So I walked up to him and asked him, he told me 'five days before yours'. Then for the next 12 years I called him on every one of his birthdays and he did the same to me.

During the five years of collegiate education, I visited him once every week. He had by then taken me for a dear friend and confederate. Within the locked doors of his tiny room week after week, he sang songs, told tales, shed tears and bragged victories. It was then I learnt that he had been a sheperd boy, tea estate laborer, trench digger, soldier, shikari and a draughtsman in the Highways department of India. I heard how he losts his mother at infancy and his dad at teenage. He very fondly told me about the woman who treated him, as a mother would treat her own child. In that tiny room I heard him confess his follies and defend some and got to know why he had two initials to his name.
During one of my weekly visits he said 'Hannahma I may leave many things to my sons, daughters and grandchildren, but I want to leave this with you- the book The Sermon on the mount by C.F. Andrews". As I read the book, I realised why he had asked me to memorise Mathew chapter 5,6, and 7.Those were the best days of our friendship.
A job took me away from my hometown and after a few more years, marriage took me to another state. One day news reached me that he had dementia and that parts of the family wanted him away at an institution. I went to my home town and went to his house, where I found him sleeping on the sofa. My aunts and uncles told me, you have to help him recognize you. I said "Thatha this is Hannah". He said "oh you've come, how have you been?". Then with no trace of dementia he explained to me how he fell ill, why they amputed one of his toes and how he was feeling then. The whole family was stunned and he never went to an institution.
My son was fortunate to have sat and played on his lap. After a trip to the UK, I heard that his memory was fading soon. Again I visited him and said "Thatha, Hannah". He asked me "so when did you return from England?". His brain was attempting to forget his errors I knew, and we called it dementia. A couple of months before he died, he visited my house- he rarely left his own house. He died a peaceful and sudden death. You could call it luck, but I know it was providential grace that I was in the city that day.
When his death certificate was to be applied for my family called me up to ask questions like what was his given name?, what was his date of birth ? and so on.
Then I knew that when he died, my dad and his siblilngs lost their dad, my grandma her husband, my cousins a grand dad, his relatives an uncle .
But I lost a friend. A dear and remarkable one.
I never visit his grave, I never will, for he is not in there. But whenever I remember my grandad, I pick up The Sermon on the Mount and read it.

Then I tell myself, he left his richest possession with me.