Baba: My grandfather

The year was 1982. Baba(my grandfather) had agreed to come from the village to our house in Patna for his cataract surgery after a lot of persuasion and request. At that time we used to live on the third floor of an apartment which did not have a lift. When Baba started climbing the stairs, he was staggering. But as I extended my hand for support, he rebuffed me outright by shouting me down. Taking help or support from anyone for his daily chores was anathema to him, a sin.

He passed away only after a few days of this incident. He was 86 year old.

Baba reminds me of the Grandfather of The Portrait of a Lady, a story by Khushwant Singh, which I had taught some time back to the High school students. He was tall and slightly bent with a stick in his one hand. He was also toothless. I could not imagine him to be young and married with children. He was meant to have lots and lots of grandchildren.

A typical day of Baba included his getting up at 4 am, doing the other chores for the day and finally sitting for prayer for minimum two hours. It must have been the most enjoyable part of his day. He would devote this period to the reading of the Hindu Scriptures such as the Ramanyan, Gita or Mahabharat. He would have the first meal of the day after finishing the prayer, not before 1 pm ever. However for my Grandmother, that was the most painful period. She could not have her meal before he had taken his (an unwritten rule of a wife taking the meal after her husband in the house). We would often hear the Grandma grumbling and complaining against the late eating habit of Baba.

It was during one such usual session of his prayer that a gentleman came to meet him. When I went to Baba to convey about his arrival, he raised his hand to indicate that the person should wait. The gentleman sat by his side and waited for the prayer to get over. After finishing the entire sequence of meditation, prayer etc when the grandfather turned around, he recognised the gentleman immediately and called him by his name. Further he said, "Have you come to see if I was alive or dead. The gentleman was very embarrassed but Baba burst out in laughter. The gentleman had indeed been sent by the Indian Postal Department for the same. My grandfather was drawing his pension after his retirement from the department.

Baba was the patriarch of our joint family and he also behaved like one. He would be fair in his judgement and won't spare even his children or grandchildren if they were found guilty. Once a boy from the neighbourhood had caused grievous injury to our cow by piercing its back with a spear. The cow had strayed in his farm while grazing. We were five cousins of the same age group who became furious to know this. We took it as a matter of family honour. Without consulting any of the elders we went to that boy's farmhouse, taught him 'our lesson' by snatching the spear from him and bringing it back home. When the matter came before Baba, he punished us for what he considered as wrong. We were ordered to go to boy's house to return the spear and say sorry to him.

The tradition of oral learning was practised in India until as late as the beginning of 20th century. People used to learn volumes and volumes of scriptures like the Vedas and such other books by heart. This learning was further handed over from generations to generations. My Baba was perhaps a strong link of that tradition. Though he had received the formal education only up to grade seven, he had all the multiplication tables from 1 to 30 and those of the decimals like 1.5, 2.5 etc at his fingertips. His knowledge of History and Geography was amazing. One day when I was struggling with some difficult arithmetic calculations while doing the homework for grade six, he came to my rescue by telling the answers in seconds.

There were 74 members in our joint family, all living together under one roof. Even the neighboring families(about 100 of them) were all part of the same clan or community where the members were bound with the ties of kinship. Death would occur every now and then either in the immediate family or in the distant, extended families. But I had never seen Baba shed any tear on the death of even a very close relative. It seemed as if he was devoid of emotions.

One evening in November I was sitting along with my cousins (eleven of them, sisters and brothers) around Baba, listening to his story of how he had passed the fitness test for the job in the Postal Department. Suddenly one of our cousins came running. She announced, “Baba, our Grandaunt is dead, Granduncle (her husband) is crying”. At first Baba became quiet. Then he said, “He is a fool, a henpecked husband”.

Similarly when the news of our Grandmother's demise was conveyed to him, we were all eager to see how he would react, especially on hearing the demise of his wife. Again he paused for a while, then mumbled, “She was the Lakshmi of the house.”

However two years later I got the privilege to see his tears. He was in his deathbed writhing in pain. My father, who was his third son, and my aunt, his only daughter, were sitting by his side. The aunt took his hand in hers and pleaded, “Babu (father), we are unable to see you in such pain. Rest in peace.” Hearing this two drops of tears rolled down his cheeks and the eyes were then closed for ever.

Even thirty six years after his death I miss Baba. He was a pillar of strength for me, a strong link to my joint and extended families, my childhood, my past. He stood for a tradition, culture and a way of life. His absence has created such a void in my life that can never be fulfilled.