Can memories of a life lived over just a few years be enough to last a lifetime?

Can someone who was part of your childhood leave such a lasting impression that, years later, you still return to those memories?

I go for a while without thinking of those days with him until something, a passing incident or something distantly related, brings him back to life, like fresh paint on an old, dry canvas.

And suddenly, my otherwise monotonous life is vibrant with colour, and everything begins to feel meaningful again because he existed.

I remember him lying peacefully on a cot in the village courtyard on a summer evening, when the breeze finally began to cool a fiery hot day, and the trees stood as green guardians against the heat. There he was, without a list of achievements to his name or a pile of accumulated wealth to show for his years, simply lying there, with his family around him.

How had he become the person I admired most, despite living what the world might consider a simple life?

It was part of his routine. After his afternoon nap, he would step out to play cards with his friends. A few hours later, he would return, wash up, and ask our grandmother or someone else for his usual evening snacks: sattu or chabena. His voice was full of affection whenever he spoke, except when he was angry or dead serious. We would sit together in the house yard, cooled by table fans, sharing our snacks.

He showed me how to mix Sattu with a bit of salt, sugar, and water, telling me this makes it much tastier, and in fact it did. On another occasion during our lunch (we used to eat out of the same plate), he said, “I’ll tell you a hack: whenever food seems like it’s not tasty, try adding some salt.”  As a kid, I saw problems. He saw opportunities. He showed me how to do things with laughter. I showed him how to do more with his Nokia keypad phone.

I remember him getting ready for a function, his formal clothes neatly pressed, his golden-chain watch resting in his hand as he fastened it around his wrist. He once told me that even at school, he made sure his shirt was clean and white and his clothes properly ironed.

Every morning, he would wake up early and go for a walk. When he returned, he would eat flour mixed with sugar and ghee. Sometimes, he would find me awake, but often, I would still be asleep. He tried to get me to wake up on time and taught us to make our own beds.

In summer, my grandfather and we kids slept on mattresses on the rooftop under a starry sky. We would sprinkle water over the rooftop to settle the dust, sweep it with a broom, and carry up our mattresses, bedsheets, and pillows.

He would tell us stories and point at the sky and show us Akash Ganga, the Milky Way, and Saptarishis, seven stars shaped like a Big Dipper in the Ursa Major constellation. I now carry a strong interest in geography, astronomy, and astrophysics.

When the sun rose and the morning heat returned, we would fold the bedding and bring it back downstairs. When we slept on cots instead, we were expected to make our own beds and those of our elders and visiting guests.

My grandfather had a little rule: whoever woke up last had to bring all the bedding down from the roof. Whoever woke up first would be his Raja beta for the day. When he returned from his morning walk, he would ask, “Aaj ka Raja kaun hai?”

Often, I slept on without a care in the world and had to bring it all back.

Much of what I knew about his earlier life came to me in fragments, through things he told us and things the family remembered.

I was told that he had served in the infantry, stationed somewhere in the mountains of Jammu and Kashmir. When he couldn’t get leave to see his son, my grandmother said, he quit and returned home. Later, he worked as a guard at a government hydroelectric power plant in the Vindhya region built on the Tamas River.

We visited him there around the time of his retirement. I went with my parents, brothers, uncle, aunt, and cousins to the place where he worked. The campus was cosily tucked between the rugged Vindhya region, where forested red-sandstone ridges overlooked deep valleys and waterfalls plunged into the ravines below. During the monsoon, spray from the falls rose high enough to reach you as you stood on the cliffs, like fine, drifting rain.

Tamas River (also called Tons and South Tons) has always held a special place in my heart. The same river that rushed through those rocky valleys widened into a calmer stretch near our village, where my grandfather would take us to swim. That stretch of the river has stayed with me.

Clear water rushed over a bed of stones and sand. Little fish darted through it while bigger ones twisted and turned beneath the surface. In the crop season, yellow mustard flowers brightened the banks, and vegetable plants like cauliflower sat quietly in their designated squares. Uphill, where the banks met the level ground of the village, wild trees such as Babool and Jungle Jalebi offered a world of their own to explore.

Our grandfather would take us to swim and bathe in the river. Against the summer heat, the water felt wonderfully cold. We would dive in and peer down at the sandy, stony bed. None of us knew how to swim. However, my grandfather would often leave us for a bit, advising us to stay closer to the shore, while he would swiftly swim much farther to the other bank. He would then stay near us, casually sitting on the surface of deep water, his legs stretched out on the surface. With his hands spread near his torso, he would make small, almost imperceptible movements to keep himself afloat.

After retiring, he spent his mornings tinkering with things around the house. He made us toys: a wooden scooter board, bows, and other things we grew up playing with. I would sit nearby while he repaired an old cot, carefully replacing its straps until everything was in place. It was a job with its own tricks, some of which I picked up by watching him.

I sometimes wish I could sit beside him again, watching him work on an old cot, without knowing how precious an ordinary morning would one day become.

Summer was the wedding season, and I would often go with him to wedding invitations. His bike could carry only one passenger, so it was often me, even when my brothers wanted to go too. He would dress in clean clothes, put on his watch, and we would set off for the venue, which was often a village field or yard converted into an improvised space with tents, lights, chairs, and tables.

People would greet him with respect, and he would introduce me to them. While he talked with them, I would get bored, roam around, and eat. Everyone seemed to trust him.

He made a point of returning home early and would get angry if my father or the others came home late.

He rarely spoke about the things he gave or did for others. I learned much of his generosity from my grandmother and the rest of the family.

When other family members or I fell sick and were hospitalised, he quickly arranged money and often visited us.

He seemed to want very little for himself, giving most of what he had to his family.


After his accident, his memory began to fail him. He would sometimes tell us the same story more than once, forgetting that he had already told it. During those years, I learned things about him that I had never known, including the swimming awards he had won, perhaps during his time in the infantry. He showed us a couple of certificates in wooden frames, protected by glass.

He kept talking about how far south I had travelled in the country to study in Pondicherry. He would also talk about how he himself had travelled to the southern parts of the country and to the high mountains in the north, as though these journeys were achievements worth remembering.

He would say, “Ye wahan gaya tha, Madras ke aage, Pondicherry, padhai ke liye.”

I remember a sunny winter day when I first saw him after the accident. By the time I went to see him, he had been discharged from the hospital, only to have to return later. He was sitting in the sun in the same front courtyard where he used to laze around on summer evenings, beside my father. It was a cold day. He wore an old dark coat and pyjamas, with a brown woollen muffler draped around his ears.

I walked towards him. As I came closer, he recognised me, and a smile appeared on his face. My father remarked to my grandmother how happy he was to see his grandson. He was recognising only a few people by then. 

Perhaps stories scattered around in fragments are random, but that is how I remember him. Writing these memories down feels like a way to hold on to them, to make sure they don’t fade with time. Perhaps I should write more of what he said to me, like when he casually told me, “Nakal karao but chhupakar, invigilator ko dikhein na.” The premise was that I was caught helping my classmates during a school examination, and the complaint reached my father, who later told my grandfather. Unlike my parents, who were angry, my grandfather seemed to understand that helping friends is often inevitable.

He is there in my memories and our photo albums, at our birthday celebrations and during his visits to us in town, dressed in formals, well-groomed, clean-shaven except for his grey-white moustache, with balding hair of the same shade.

I never knew where he stopped to buy the gifts, but he never came empty-handed. He brought chocolates and wafers, and presents like a pen with a torch. To adults, he might have seemed strict, but his grandsons mostly saw his compassion.

Perhaps this is why he left such a lasting impression on us. It wasn’t only the qualities I have come to admire as an adult, but also the way he treated the people around him, including us. He seemed at ease with an ordinary life, and being around him gave us a sense of peace that I have come to appreciate only with age.

I don’t think I understood any of this as a child. I only knew that I loved being around him. Only now, looking back at the life he lived and the little things he did, am I beginning to understand why I admired him so much.



The Hand I Nearly Took for Granted

It was a warm, sunny winter Sunday morning when he came to see me. I can still picture the pavement of our hostel, Shivalik of Navodaya, lined on both sides with flower plants and trees bearing light green leaves.

In the winter of my 8th grade, I had gotten into a fight and got my left shoulder dislocated with a minor fracture and wasn’t able to lift my hand or use it. When my grandfather, accompanied by my uncle, visited me, I tried to pretend it wasn’t there, but they realised something was wrong and took me home. My father took me to a hospital several times for medical care, and I had to wear a specialised shoulder immobiliser for a month.

I am grateful today because I might not have a functioning left hand if they hadn’t visited me at boarding school that Sunday. Now that I use it extensively to type, play guitar, work out, and do day-to-day activities, I feel truly grateful.