My mother calls me this morning and says, “What should I do with suitcases filled with books of your grandfather?”
Some he had written. Some he had compiled from his inspiration from books he never stopped reading. He read till the time he lived.
I ask my mother to ship the suitcases to me. I will be honored if I can compile a little of my grandfather in a book.
And here I am typing this. She called me his true descendent because I write, just like him.
I didn’t always write though. But I remember how it all began.
The year was 1993 in a small, pristine, and untouched town called Kapurthala of Punjab, India. I was a confused teenager, involved in petty issues of Walkman breaking down and taking from me my music, stuff that in the grand scheme of things means nothing but to a teenager, it was my world.
Well, the summer of 1993 was in full swing. The ground was burning, the heat was rising in fumes and drenching us in sweat. Shahrukh Khan had hit big in Bollywood by playing negative roles in Baazigar and Darr.
I biked to and from Christ King Convent School run by nuns when my hair barely hit my shoulders and my classmates had fancy nicknames to describe my weird hair and weird me.
In a society run by men, it was then Gill Mam, our English teacher in perfectly tailored Salwar Kameez and immaculate makeup, had the audacity to stand tall in our classroom and suggest we write down our thoughts.
Oh, boy was that a scary proposition for teenagers filled with dark thoughts, nightmares of failing–not making it in the boards or in the entrance exams to colleges.
I took her advice. I had my grandfather’s genes. But I was still not ready to lay bare what twirled in my head.
So, I hid behind metaphors and abstracts.
I am pissed at how crowded the movie theatre was became “a day filled with purple and violet hews at the movie theatre.”
I am disgusted at having to defend against inappropriate touching in public buses where the men went out on scavenger hunt on the still-alive females. In my diary that became it was an interesting and rocking ride.
Being a female in India is daunting. Being a father of two girls, even more so.
Society turned my father into an angry man who was always ready to punch, yell at the unwanted leering advances from strange men at railway stations, at shopping center. His frown didn’t leave his forehead when we were out. We became unwilling spectators of him defending us. We grew up, moved out, went away from our little town.
As a teenager, all these thoughts never made it into my journals. It remained as hews, tints, odors, shapes of clouds, rumbling of thunder, gurgle of rain…
And, here I am letting my heart bleed. My grandfather is no more, but he carries on in our spirits, in our words. And, the injustices of the world keep the pen moving, trying to make the world a more equal, a fairer place for all hearts with diverse faces who must live in one world.
No longer hiding behind abstracts. I am in the thick of it now. Writing goes on. It will die with me as it did for my grandfather.
