I Have a Brother At Home Who's A Boy
A year ago today, my grandfather passed away. I guess my dad and I are both similar in that we both turn to writing as therapy. He asked me to post a small something about my feelings in his blog. I'm replicating a slightly edited version of my thoughts here:
“Who is that speaking? Rohu is that really you?” This greeting marked the beginning of the end, or to put it less euphemistically, my grandfather and my last conversation. And no, he didn’t say this because he was losing his memory or consciousness (as he did in the days just before his death), but he said this with the lively tone and spirit by which I have come to define him over the past 20 years.
There was never a dull moment with my grandfather. He was always heartily poking fun at my grandmother or his children. For example, in response to an email I had sent shortly after my grandmother’s eye surgery, he wrote, “She is fine. New glasses have been prescribed for her and she has started wearing them. Now, she sees well and also looks better.” Still, I would have to say that his stories about my dad were the funniest as they were always stories my dad has conveniently “forgotten” over the years.
As you can probably tell, my grandfather loved talking about his family. He never bragged about his experiences as Gujarat chief secretary or his “celebrity” status in Adyar. He raved about the fact that his youngest grandchild had shared with him the perks of oral hygiene (“brush it everyday!”) while his oldest was at “Pennsylvania University.” He had a way of making each one of us feel like we had a separate and equally important role in his life. For the longest time, I was his only granddaughter, and he never let me forget this. Growing up, it was my biggest honor to be the “only granddaughter.” My brother was the oldest grandson, our male cousin, the youngest grandson, and when the youngest cousin was finally born 8 years ago (usurping my title as only granddaughter), my grandfather called and notified me as my promotion to “oldest grandchild.” All this without a high school diploma.
My grandfather also had kind of a roast for each of his grandchildren – a funny story from our childhood that he would share (maybe a little too often) and submit to Reader’s Digest monthly. If you ever met my grandfather after I turned 3, you’ve probably heard mine: It had been about two weeks since my brother was born and I was experiencing the usual “jealous-older-child” syndrome, so my grandfather was spending the day with me in San Francisco. We were sitting in a tram. I should probably also mention that I had a horrific boy cut. So this woman sitting near us turns to me and asks, “Are you a boy or a girl?” to which I responded, “Well, I’m a girl, but I have a brother at home who’s a boy.” After that, every time we talked my grandfather would ask, “How’s your brother who’s a boy?”
Jokes aside, what I miss most about my grandfather is that he believed in me. My every littlest accomplishment was such a big deal for him. When I was awarded the distinction of scholar-athlete I told him. I even told him that the other 12 members of my team had received the same award. But still, he congratulated and re-congratulated the family’s “scholar-athlete.” Then, a couple years ago, I wrote him one poem that he actually had published in an Indian magazine. Last year when I visited, my grandfather had me meet all his neighbors. Upon entering the first house, the host looked at me and then at my grandfather and said, “Uncle! Is this the one? The writer?” I was speechless. And was again, at the six other houses where this moment was repeated. It’s almost impossible to make it as a recognized writer. But the fact that I am a “writer” in my grandfather’s eyes makes me one of the most successful writers there ever was.
At first I was devastated that my grandfather would not be here if and when I actually accomplish something of significance. But you know it’s probably more symbolic that he won’t. Because he was a man who celebrated the smallest of things. Don’t get me wrong, he was a fighter if I ever met one, but he knew that change takes time and he recognized the importance of stopping along the way.
There was never a dull moment with my grandfather. He was always heartily poking fun at my grandmother or his children. For example, in response to an email I had sent shortly after my grandmother’s eye surgery, he wrote, “She is fine. New glasses have been prescribed for her and she has started wearing them. Now, she sees well and also looks better.” Still, I would have to say that his stories about my dad were the funniest as they were always stories my dad has conveniently “forgotten” over the years.
As you can probably tell, my grandfather loved talking about his family. He never bragged about his experiences as Gujarat chief secretary or his “celebrity” status in Adyar. He raved about the fact that his youngest grandchild had shared with him the perks of oral hygiene (“brush it everyday!”) while his oldest was at “Pennsylvania University.” He had a way of making each one of us feel like we had a separate and equally important role in his life. For the longest time, I was his only granddaughter, and he never let me forget this. Growing up, it was my biggest honor to be the “only granddaughter.” My brother was the oldest grandson, our male cousin, the youngest grandson, and when the youngest cousin was finally born 8 years ago (usurping my title as only granddaughter), my grandfather called and notified me as my promotion to “oldest grandchild.” All this without a high school diploma.
My grandfather also had kind of a roast for each of his grandchildren – a funny story from our childhood that he would share (maybe a little too often) and submit to Reader’s Digest monthly. If you ever met my grandfather after I turned 3, you’ve probably heard mine: It had been about two weeks since my brother was born and I was experiencing the usual “jealous-older-child” syndrome, so my grandfather was spending the day with me in San Francisco. We were sitting in a tram. I should probably also mention that I had a horrific boy cut. So this woman sitting near us turns to me and asks, “Are you a boy or a girl?” to which I responded, “Well, I’m a girl, but I have a brother at home who’s a boy.” After that, every time we talked my grandfather would ask, “How’s your brother who’s a boy?”
Jokes aside, what I miss most about my grandfather is that he believed in me. My every littlest accomplishment was such a big deal for him. When I was awarded the distinction of scholar-athlete I told him. I even told him that the other 12 members of my team had received the same award. But still, he congratulated and re-congratulated the family’s “scholar-athlete.” Then, a couple years ago, I wrote him one poem that he actually had published in an Indian magazine. Last year when I visited, my grandfather had me meet all his neighbors. Upon entering the first house, the host looked at me and then at my grandfather and said, “Uncle! Is this the one? The writer?” I was speechless. And was again, at the six other houses where this moment was repeated. It’s almost impossible to make it as a recognized writer. But the fact that I am a “writer” in my grandfather’s eyes makes me one of the most successful writers there ever was.
At first I was devastated that my grandfather would not be here if and when I actually accomplish something of significance. But you know it’s probably more symbolic that he won’t. Because he was a man who celebrated the smallest of things. Don’t get me wrong, he was a fighter if I ever met one, but he knew that change takes time and he recognized the importance of stopping along the way.
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