Another stage

The worst thing about growing up is not that you will one day mourn your grand parent. It is that you will accept it as just another stage in life.

My first vivid memory of my grandfather is when I was about 6 or 7. I would play downstairs with the kids in my apartment for an extended period of time, all the while keeping an eye on the road to see if the sandalwood coloured FIAT would show up. The joy of seeing the car drive up and actually seeing my grandparents was so unimaginable that I can't seem to remember it.

While most summers were about mangoes, cousins and unending pampering, mine was also a little bit about being known as my grandfather's granddaughter. Almost everyone in the area knew him and stopped to speak. Often made me think I was the queen of the world or, at least, the princess. Pens, he would give me pens as gifts. Some randomly chosen off his pen stand, some preciously saved from a souvenir hamper. And I would treasure them all. In my world of beautiful pretense, their home was the castle and my pens, the gold.

When my grandmother passed on, my world shook but it didn't crumble. I was barely 10 and the world was still a very big confusing phenomenon. Life would stay the same, everyone assured.

My brother and I grew older and, at one point, attached to what cable TV could offer. Thus the summer destination without it was, clearly, a bore. By the time my prudent grandfather caved in, we said we didn't have any friends around and slowly, the long summers became brief weekends.

When I wanted to go away to college at a remote desert, I was blind to everyone's reactions, including my grandfather's. But he wrote to me, and I to him, with unfailing regularity. The letters probably didn't say anything new or different each time, yet I knew they mattered. When I would browse his pen stand years later, I would see carefully arranged under his transparent table cloth, neatly titled and dated pictures that I had sent to him.

Then the letters stopped. Phone calls were now cheaper and that was the way to go. I called from everywhere I went, even to say that I had reached my parents' home. He wanted to hear and it made me glad that somebody did.

When the time came for me to be married, I don't remember much of the conversation with my parents, yet, every single detail of how I told my grand father is so clearly etched. I didn't care what style the wedding would be. I wanted my grandfather to officiate and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Six months ago, his health started deteriorating. I hadn't seen him for more than a year then. One day I woke up with a strong desire to see him and a little more than a week later I landed there. I was the princess and I could set things right, I thought. True enough, for the first time in months, he had solid food at the dining table with us that day. He spoke, joked and often called out my name across the room.

After a few days he was brought to my parents' home, without being told. He knew we thought he was getting worse but he wanted nothing to do with a hospital, or doctors. We told him little lies to keep him from going back and to make him stay with us. A few times he would let down his guard and tell me old stories. About his first crush, a girl who was his teacher's daughter. She would lend him her slate and it would have his name neatly written on it. That was love then, he said.

After three days, he insisted on going back. As I helped him into the car, I somehow knew. This was going to be the last time. I hugged him and he planted a kiss on my cheek. He nodded. I think he knew too.

I only spoke to him once after that, to say I had reached back here. It was barely two weeks after I left when I got the news. Pain and anger. A lot of it. Pain for not being there and anger at everything and everyone around me. The doctors for not saving him, my mom for not letting me speak to him the previous day lest he gets emotional, my husband for being the reason I'm so far away, myself for obliging and God for making the world so huge to travel across. It took awhile for the irrationality to melt away.

It's weird. You spend a lifetime learning about life and death and how to deal with them. Yet, when someone close dies, the best way to console yourself is to say that they are in a better place. Like you would tell a 6 year old.

I will always regret not being there with you as you set off on your last journey. But know that I think of you and mourn you a little every single day.