KIDS

I am on a flight from Pune to Ahmedabad. For some reason I am among the first set of people to get on to the plane. Just as I..

Remembering My Grandparents

I was quite close to my grandparents. By virtue of being the eldest of the four grandchildren (and being a boy!), I not only received a lot of affection but also got more opportunities to interact with them. Throughout my childhood days they lived in Agra where my grandfather practiced as a lawyer after a long stint with the local administration (collectorate). Most of my summer vacations then were spent in Agra. I often went there alone as I was considered to be old enough to travel independently.  I enjoyed those days tremendously with all the attention showered on me. They moved in with us in Jaipur around the time I joined college. It was nice to have them despite the intermittent clash of generations. I realize today that the process of getting to know   my grandparents is an ongoing one that still continues after so many years of their passing away. Lakhena Temple ruins, Polo Forest, Vijaynagar, Gujarat, India. November 16, 2020. In Agra my grandparents lived in a locality that was vacated by people who migrated to Pakistan at the time of partition. In fact, the house where they stayed was arranged for my grandfather by the local administration as he was involved in the allocation of houses to those who came from the other side of the border. Someone was needed in the vicinity to supervise things. They lived in the same house on rent till they moved to Jaipur. Part of the house was used as a shoe factory before partition. This part was never used for living as it had no ventilation or light. Even in the 1970s when we ventured into these dark rooms as brave kids, we would find firmas (shoe-lasts) lying around. My grandfather rarely talked about those days except for saying that they were some of the most difficult days for him during his life in the local administration.  Many people who were allocated houses in that locality became my grandfather’s lifelong friends and visited us very often. I do not remember a single instance of their discussing the trauma of partition while I do remember a few occasions when they laughed about the confusion of those times. My grandmother was a very religious person and a great believer of Hindu religious customs. Not only were all the religious festivals celebrated with gusto, the morning puja (worship) and the evening aarti (incense or light offered to deity) were part of her daily routine. As kids we were not required to join her in the morning puja but singing along with her at the time of the aarti with folded hands and closed eyes was mandatory. As we grew older, we could avoid active participation in the aarti but she felt very good if we did join her. While she did not mind going to a temple once in a while, my grandmother’s God essentially resided in the house. As she grew older, she spent more and more time with the prayer beads, reciting Ram naam (praying for God Ram) My grandfather was also quite religious, but less ritualistic. He never joined the evening aarti or the morning puja and I do not remember him ever going to a temple. After the aarti was over, my grandmother always brought the diya (lamp) to bless him with it. This he accepted with reverence. Every day he wrote 786 in Arabic several times while reciting (almost mumbling) the kalima. (declaration of faith in Allah and Mohammed as his messenger). One often saw him with the tasbeeh (rosary) reciting aayats (verses from the Holy Quran).  In Agra a fakir (religious ascetic) from a nearby dargah (tomb of a Muslim saint) visited him often. I never understood what they discussed but he often brought a taveez (amulet or charm) which my grandfather tied on his arm or gave to his brother who was ailing. At times money changed hands for a special dua (prayer or invocation) at the dargah. My grandmother never complained about the non-participation of my grandfather in her everyday pujas but was not very happy with the visits of this fakir as she was not convinced of his genuineness. The only thing common between the daily religious routines of my grandparents was the prayer beads that they shared. Once in a while both of them would also say the same phrase aloud: Tu karam kar de to beda paar hai! (If God is generous, then all is well). Tomb of the Sufi saint and poet, Rumi. Konya, Turkey. June 7, 2024. I understand that they had inherited this phrase from my great grandfather who was a reasonably well-known Sufi poet and was invited to Ajmer every year at the time of the Urs (annual festival at the Sufi saint Khwaja Garib Nawaz dargah). Despite these significant differences in the daily religious routines, my grandparents actively participated together in two pujas during the year. One was Laxmi puja at the time of Diwali and the other was kalam-dawat ki puja (worship of pen and inkpot) at the time of bhai dooj. In many respects the latter was much more elaborate in our household. Everybody brought their writing instruments along with inkpots (till they were in use). Kalavas (sacred threads) were tied to each of these and all of us were expected to write something with them on a large sheet of paper and then put some kumkum (red turmeric powder) and akshat (rice). Typically, my grandfather wrote something in Arabic, Urdu or Persian. My grandmother almost always wrote Aum Namah Shivai (I bow down to Lord Shiva). Depending on who else was around, other elders in the household wrote different things in English, Hindi, Urdu or even Sanskrit.  As small kids we were satisfied with signing our names with a flourish. But as we grew older, we also experimented. On different occasions, I remember writing lines from      Tagore’s ‘where mind is without fear’ (Visit Here) and even a few from