My father is like this mushy, emotional “custardy” thing when near my man cub, who, by the way, turned 7, just four months back! He would look forever at him and his favourite moment in the day would be when his grandson would talk to him or play with him. I didn’t pay much heed till my father did what he did recently. It was a large family gathering organised at my in-laws and my parents were, obviously, invited. Upon reaching the hosts’ place, he kept everyone waiting as he noticed his grandson playing out in the garden and all he wanted to do was spend some time with him. Not that he is getting any less, but I guess I am acknowledging the fact that his grandson means the world to him.
My son Advait, takes turns to visit his grandparents. He has a strong sense of dividing his time between the two sets of grand-relations. He worked it out in his head that while we celebrate all birthdays, we never celebrate my father’s. My dad doesn’t remember his birthday (apparently his birth documents went up in flames and nobody on his side of the family remembers his date). Little Advait noticed this and immediately set out to correct it. He went to my mum-in-law and told her of his plan to celebrate my father’s birthday! She being the encouraging woman to his industrious ideas, went out with him and even bought a cake and goodies that I carried to my parents’ home where my dad’s birthday was celebrated with much gusto. The cake was very nice too! So now, my father’s birth date is October 17. Why October 17, you say? Well, Advait willed it and so we celebrate it.
Just this other day, when cub and I were walking to the parking, I reiterated why he should spend more quality time with his grandparents. I specifically pointed out that my father has emotionally welled-up with age and so, giving him a little more attention wouldn’t hurt anyone. As we started the car, Advait asked me about my grandpa, my father’s father and how I spent time with him.
Well, my grandpa wasn’t half as expressive as his. He was rather strict, unapproachable and a total social recluse. I have seen him emerge from his room only during Durga Puja. Otherwise he would be in his room in the old mansion that he shared with his brother, and where Durga Puja is still celebrated and talked about in the Calcutta media. My grandpa was the polar opposite of my father and my uncles and aunts. He was a man of sparse wants and needs. His room had a bed, a table, a copy of the unabridged Mahabharata in Bengali, and a gold-tipped Sheaffer’s ink pen. I always liked him. He used to like me back. In fact, I liked meeting him, although describing such a meeting would be a toughie. I would enter his dimly lit room (rather depressing at times but still, the familiarity overpowered everything else), and call out to him. His thin, bony body would be lain on the bed. He would acknowledge my presence and welcome me. “Esho, esho”, he’d say. “Esho” was Bengali for “come”. I’d sit next to him, not knowing what else to say. No small talk. I’d sit by the bed side hearing the tick-tock of his near-invisible clock. I still remember the smell of his room and perhaps him too. I’d seek his permission to read his Mahabharata. I had “rights” to all that he had. So I would sit, next to the small window with green slats, and read the Bengali descriptions of Virat-Kaand. And when my eyes would tire of the small Bengali typeface, I’d take his ink pen and start doodling. Nobody, absolutely nobody was allowed to touch this pen.
When I was back in New Delhi, I would receive post cards from my grandpa and would have written it using the same ink pen. He only had that one ink pen. As he grew older and loner, his handwriting became less legible. His letters would dance nervously across the pale yellow of the postcard; something that become a challenge to read later. He would ask my father about my well being and what I had been up to in school. Twice in a year, he would wire some money; actually send across a money-order (for those that might remember) and ask me to buy my favourite mythological books with it. I did. And I would put down his name and the date I bought it.
And one day a postcard reached us in Delhi announcing his death. I think I was in middle school then. That is all I remember about him. I miss him. Miss not touching his Ramesses-like wrinkly hand and asking him how he was. Miss not seeing him come down the stairs of our Calcutta home, all by himself. Miss not receiving those undecipherable postcards.
I remember asking my father to write to his brothers in Calcutta to save the Mahabharata and the pen. For years, I never got to see them. And a few days back, in the month of October 2019, my mother handed me over the one thing that reminds me of my grandfather, Pitamber Haldar – his gold nibbed Sheaffer’s pen.
Glad that my son is making more memories with his grandfather than I could. I just asked him to spend more time together and have more fun.
Fatherhood 