So Mean duh!

I laugh okay. Giggle. Smirk. Loud laugh. Hysterical laugh. I just laugh a lot. I laugh at everything. I laugh at everyone. Even myself.

I laugh when someone dies. I laugh when someone cries. I laugh when someone is in pain. I laugh when he vomits on the roadside due to a sunstroke. I laugh when her grandmother dies. I laugh when my parents are mad at me. I laugh when my best friend calls me a bitch and hates me. I laugh when my sister judges me. I laugh when I am put on an “improvement plan”. I laugh when he has a heavy accent. I laugh when she makes grammatical errors. I laugh when they brag. I laugh when they are meek. I laugh when they are stupid. I laugh when they are smart. I laugh when they act innocent. I laugh when they are too bold.

I laugh when her dress is too tight. I laugh when his tummy tires bulge out from that t-shirt. I laugh when their butt cracks show. I laugh at her ugly boyfriend. I laugh at her handsome boyfriend. I laugh when his wife is taller and manlier than him. I laugh when his wife is too flat and tiny. I laugh when she spills drinks on me in the club. I laugh at gays. I laugh at straight people. I laugh at those shabby beggars. I laugh when someone trips and falls flat. I laugh when they fail. I laugh when they succeed. I laugh at poverty. I laugh at riches. And I laugh at jokes- even the poorest of them.

And only seldom I cry. Seldom I feel the pain. The sorrow. The gravity of the situation. I should’ve helped.

But mostly, I just laugh.

Karma is gonna give it to me so bad. Right?

P.s. : I’m gonna make some salad now. It shall have black olives 😉

That day, the speech was Golden.

So this is going to be really long. But worth it.

The earliest memories that I have of my grandfather are the ones where he would get me all these fancy birthday presents every year. A monkey soft toy with really long arms and velcro at arm tips so I could wear it around my neck and pretend the monkey was real; A gameboy console that had all those crazy snake and brick games; A box of candied strawberries (because strawberries are hard to find in this country, and I fancied all western things); Illustrated kids’ books he specially procured for me from Australia, Russia (They had fancy people names such as Susan, Ben, John and they ate pancakes for breakfast)- I remember having spent endless number of days just gazing into those books and wondering how it felt to stay outside India (where people were dark skinned, did not have golden hair, and did not use the fork and knife.).

An array of presents he bought for me. Since I was a kid. My first computer, my first walkman, my first bicycle, my first soft-toy. On birthdays and Christmas eves, it was his tradition to take me out for dinner in a five star hotel in his grand old Fiat Premier, driven by his (now old) driver. And he continued this trend of showering me with presents and surprises until he breathed his last.

Today would’ve been his 77th birthday. He passed away last year just one month short of his 76th birthday. It was a cruel day; So cruel. After I saw his cold body lying in front of me, I knew from then on that, no loss however big or small, shall break me. I had grown up to believe that my grandfather was indestructible. And even when I was 22 years old, I somehow believed that he would live forever.

My grandfather was in all senses a grand man. Towering at 6’2”, and a booming deep voice, he commanded respect and attention of one and all. And he had been a man of achievement. The youngest brother of 3 sisters, he was a pampered child. A nerdy, geeky pampered child. Born and brought up in a remote village, he used to procure his books from Calcutta, and would read Leo Tolstoy and Charles Dickens in the tiny flicker of an oil lamp. He later went on to pursue his master’s degree in English and topped the Allahbad University. In his student years, he also became actively involved with the youth wings of both Congress and BJP (two major political parties of India). He always maintained his political neutrality and focused entirely on the upliftment of youth residing in remote parts of his native town. During this time, most of his close friends were preparing for Civil services, and my grandfather also attempted the examination. He cleared it without the slightest difficulty- but never took up the job of a civil administrator. Pursuing a doctoral degree in Political Science, he got deeply influenced by the wave of Marxism and denounced all forms of governmental control.

He returned to his native village, and started working towards setting up institutions for advancing female education and educating youth in general. His efforts bore a glorious fruit when an Inter college was set up in that small town. Several years later that college expanded into a post graduate institution, and my grandfather the dean of the college. He kept a picture of baby me and his late mother on his “Principal’s desk”.

My dad is the second in line of the three sons that my grandparents reproduced. My grandfather wanted a daughter too. No luck there. The elder son’s matrimony also produced the first child as a son. So when I was born after a long gap of almost 42 years in the family lineage, everyone was ecstatic. I would not know how my grandfather felt about it, but as most of the stories that he told me later, he also told me he rode a Bajaj scooter 60kms all the way to see me after my birth. He called me “Honey” after the color of my eyes.

As I grew up and reached my teens, I felt the most at ease talking about teenage nuances with him. I remember when he saw me for the first time after I got my period, he complimented on having lost that “baby fat” and said I looked wonderful and lady like. I remember I was so shy, and he just smiled and told me how I had advanced towards “growing up”. It was during one of those days that I asked him the meaning of “Cleavage” while reading an article, and how he easily told me both the literal and contextual meaning of the term. He taught me the chapters on Geomorphosis and World wars- and those still remain one of my favorite topics to research on.

And oh! Did I mention the huge beautiful, airy house that he had managed to built for himself in that town. It had many airy rooms, and house was surrounded on 3 sides by rose gardens, huge jackfruit trees, the fragrant lemon and Jasmine bushes, hibiscus trees, and a massive Neem tree. There was a garage for the Fiat. Wines and creepers beautifully entwined the out gate of the house. There were faithful servants, and I spent several of my long and short vacations there, playing kiddie games with imaginary friends.

The most striking feature of that house was the massive library that was built as a separate building from the main house. The library had a massive collection of all those leather bound books on world wars and history and geography and literature. In various languages- English, Hindi, French, German. It had cupboards full of books, shelves full of books. There were books everywhere. There was a study table with a glass top, underneath which were various postcards from around the world- and a picture of baby me smiling wide. There were black leather couches, an armchair, a huge ornate chandelier, and big canvas oil painting that caught one’s eye as soon as they entered the library. The painting depicted a woman clad in a white sari, in a deserted setting, carrying a pot of water on one shoulder, and lugging her fainted husband on the other. On that woman’s face, there was agony, determination and the will to survive and carry her dying husband to a safe place.

That painting intrigued me and haunted me. Women could be so delicate and so strong is what I always thought whenever I gazed at it.

All the three sons were married and settled. Had gorgeous kids (Good genes bragging 😉). But my grandfather could not hide his biased affection towards me. There were other granddaughters and grandsons in the house. And he loved them all. But I visibly remained his favorite.

As years passed by both my grandparents started spending most of their time with us. The kids and sons and their wives. The native house was left to the care of those faithful servants. Sometimes we would visit for a short trip of 3-4 days, and then return to the comforts of the city life. I was growing up fast. And with time my grandfather’s over doze of love and affection started to bother me. (Stupid teenager minds). His public rants about my great grades and intuitive intelligence started to embarrass me. I would often tell him to not praise me in front of other people. I got bored of his repetitive stories from my childhood, and how I looked like a doll in that pink frock.

So our conversations became more and more one-sided. He would rant on about world and politics and teenage minds and how he loved me so. And I heard it all, while thinking what I would do next once the conversation was over.

I went to the boarding school at 16 years of age, and never looked back at home. My grandfa would write letters to me, explaining how to take care of my health in the raging cold, how to plan my studies, sleep on time and all that stuff. I liked these letters in the beginning. Gradually I would just glance at them, and they would go in my “family letter pile”. I would always talk about my grandfa to my friends- I did not love him less, I just did not have enough relevant things to talk about.

And then came college. I got a phone. He made it a practice to call me EVERY Sunday. Without fail. I had started divulging anecdotes from my college life to him, and how he enjoyed them! Our discussions on politics and global warming and Iraq and America started to rekindle. I called him up everytime I had a debate or speech competition coming up, and he would fill me in with precious pointers. I mostly won the first prize, much to his delight ! I was opening up again. But still awkward when everytime before hanging up he would say, “Stay happy, stay healthy. I love you”.

In my college second year, I did not receive his call one Sunday. I wondered why. But I did not even call him. A few days later, my mother rang me up to inform me that grandfa had suffered a massive heart attack and was on life support. I cried my eyes out. This could not happen!. He was the healthiest, fittest man I knew. At 72 years of age, he had black hair, a perfect set of 32, went for daily long walks, did Pranayam and Yoga and was just perfect. How did this happen??

I made all sorts of promises to God (I am agnostic) and myself that I would be more caring and loving and would express my love more for him. Just let him be alright. He survived. Doctors said it was a miracle. And when I went to pay him a visit, I could not believe my eyes. He had shed more than half his weight, needed help in getting up from the sofa and could not talk for long. As my eyes brimmed with tears, he kept repeating with a smile, “I am alright Honey”. His diet had to be altered to include more boiled vegetables and soups, which he hated. Everyone in the family believed that only I could convince him to eat that kind of food. I tried, and succeeded. He ate his meals.

Within a year of that massive heart attack he started recovering. Old age had made recovery slow, but he was determined. DETERMINED TO SEE ME GROW. SEE ME GET MARRIED. PROBABLY SEE MY KIDS TOO! Yeah! He reiterated it every time he called me on Sundays after I had started working post college. He loved it that I was earning well. He continued bragging in his Old Men club about my achievements. And constantly reminded me, by SAYING OUT LOUD AND CLEAR over phone calls or in person that I was the center of his will to survive. He said he loved me the most. The most after he loved his mother, who passed away years ago. He said the only reason he wanted to live longer and be healthier was to see me flourish! And I was always tongue-tied. Too awkward and dazzled to speak anything. He would still surprise me by crediting my bank account with insane amounts of money (he received a handsome pension) and would always jokingly say, “The best way to show your kids you love them, is to put money in their bank account”. I used to retaliate and tell him I was now working! And he would say, “This is just your birthday gift”.

He wanted me to be free. He wanted me to leave India. We had even planned on going to NYC together for a trip. Of course after his heart attack travelling was out of question.

My grandparents were fortunate to have their sons do so bloody well in their businesses. We are a close knit family, and my dad along with my uncles, decided to host a grand 75th birthday party for my grandfather. Now my grandfa did not like too much unwanted attention, where he would have to talk unnecessarily and stay awake beyond 10pm! But he reluctantly agreed.

Preparations started. Invites were sent to many a people across India and abroad. The best five star heritage hotel was booked overnight for guests to stay in and my grandfather- mostly just smiled and nodded his head at all the grandeur his sons were putting in. My grandmom was however very elated 😉 . I was working at that time, and me and one of my closest female friends (also my flatmate- let’s called her Ms. Z) were also going to attend this important day. Me and Ms. Z took a 3 day leave from office and we traveled with my family to attend the function. I had looked fervently for an apt gift for my “Baba” (as I called him) and decided on a crimson red Satya Paul knotted tie. Yes he dressed very smart. Always prim and proper, complete with a blazer and tie and shining black shoes.

We arrived a day in advance of the D-day. And me and grandfa joked about his “grand 75th birthday”. I was overwhelmed with emotions, and discussed with Ms. Z how badly I wanted to let my Baba know how much I loved him but always fell short of words. I was struggling to give apt words to my emotions. My cousins and other family members already teased me about the undying affection Baba had for me. This time I wanted to display my love too. But how? I did not know.

The D-day came. So many people. So much high class drama. I was a bit late in arriving at the venue (because I am always late!!) and the moment my grandfa saw me, his eyes lit up! He was sure wearing that red crimson tie I had gifted him and he looked handsome as ever. As I crossed the huge hall and walked upto him, I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. I remained confident. I was family! I should not be embarrassed or intimidated! And when I reached the main dais, he got up and hugged me, and kissed me on the forehead, like always. And then! He made me sit down by his side. And that’s how the evening advanced. A plethora of people came, gifted him things, and bouquets and he said to me in a low tone, “I am so tired, I want to go now”. There were cameras, and videographers and Ms. Z had a pleasant smile on her face looking at me under all the limelight.

Later in the evening, when all family members had gathered and were sharing anecdotes, they started demanding my opinion on Baba’s life. They wanted to hear, for the first time ever, what the favorite granddaughter had to say.

I fidgeted in my seat. And then I stood up, went upto the stage, and in what seemed like a phantom moment, took the mic into my hand. And started speaking. With a choked throat and fighting back a tsunami of tears, I recalled one of the starry summer nights, when sitting on the terrace, my grandfa had taught me a few of his old favorite Hindi songs. He used to sing beautifully well. And suddenly I remembered the lyrics to his favorite Hindi song featuring Raj Kapoor and Nargis. It was like divine intervention! I had not sung that song in years.

And I started singing! Without music, without thinking. And I sang on! The Universe came together to fulfill my wish that day. The notes to the song were perfect, and I even remembered the second stanza! There was a thunderous applause and I ended the song with, “I love you Baba” and he looked at me and said “I love you too”. My mom had tears streaming down her face. (Yeah now my hands are shivering, and I have tears).

That day, the speech was Golden.

I am glad I was able to pull those words out of my mouth. I was able to let him know, in front of everyone how much I loved him. How much I treasured all those memories of the times spent with him, just gazing at stars and trees and going for nature walks.

He passed away a year later. Of two consecutive massive heart attacks. No God, no power, could save him.  And even as he lay on that hospital bed, I was again late in reaching the hospital to see him. He had barely met or talked to anyone that day. But subconsciously he knew my train was supposed to arrive at 2pm. I reached the hospital at 6pm. The hospital attendant asked him if he wanted to see me. (Baba must’ve thought, “Hell yeah”!) I walked into the ICU. Tubes and oxygen masks covered him. Tears came rolling down my cheeks. He asked me to remove his oxygen mask and get him his glasses. He put on his glasses and looked at me. Said, “I had been waiting for you”. I said I was sorry that I got late. He then kissed my hand, rubbed his frail hand over my head and hugged me slightly. He repeated his words, “I want you to be happy in life. Study a lot, achieve everything you want. Flourish. Just keep going.” And I said, “You stop being so adamant on going back home. Please stay in the hospital and let the doctors and nurses take care of you. I know you don’t like hospitals, but please give them a chance”. He shut his eyes and then said, “Yeah you’re right. I should give them a chance.”

The next day at 5:27am, he breathed his last. It was a Sunday. The same day I deleted his phone number. There would be no more Sunday calls.

That is not the end of him. He made me stronger. He made me a believer. He made me what I am in my mind and soul. Free in thought.

He was always a free soul.Trapped inside that body.