This old, wise man is my grandfather who found yet another enthusiastic listener in me on a fine, banda day, and when encouraged by his daughter, cleared his throat to start off his narration.
“We were the only family who had traveled to the city from our village. I brought tins of biscuits to sell for 2-3 mohars.” My aunt interrupted and exclaimed how tasty those biscuits used to be. My grandfather, orphaned at an early age, was left to options of miscellaneous odd jobs in and around the village and was cheated by his village relatives over the properties left by his dead father. He rubbed his eyelids vigorously as he provided us with an anecdote of a ‘near-to-death’ experience, “…I grabbed a cow by its tail as the herd started to run in a frantic, crazed race and almost fell off a cliff. Thankfully, I grasped a few offshoots of grass growing on the ground. I think I was fated to survive and live a life full of struggles”
My aunt, almost on the verge of hysteric tears welling up in her eyes, grinned at my grandfather. He needed no further encouragement and instantly delved into yet another story.
“Although we lived in a village, we were never the sort who lived a ‘dirty, ignorant’ life (most probably, wary of the assumption that people have about villagers being unhygienic and uneducated). We sent our daughters to schools and we ate well. We were the first ones to give our children unique names as opposed to the regular ones.”
At this particular point of narration, I came to a realization that my mother’s family was probably the first one to do a lot of ‘first’. I must confess that I felt a sense of pride overcome me as my aunt added, “Yes, yes. Our mother used to be the chairperson of the women’s group and father used to be politically active. You know, he was really interested in politics then.”
Bear in mind, this was around four decades ago. I looked at my grandfather in awe while he defended himself, “It wasn’t that I was especially interested in politics; but since everyone in the village wanted to be superior and show off their connections, we had to have some political pro-activeness.”
I saw my grandfather in a different light. For the first time, I realized I had never really thought of him as a ‘young, politically active individual.’ I had taken him for granted as my grandfather and that was the end of it. How his youth shaped his old age had not somehow mattered to me. And what a contrast: my grandfather who clung on to his mobile radio and my grandfather who used to walk around his village with that youthful jest for life.
He continued on with his mischievous smile but I had already started off into another tangent of thought; I was envious of his ability to pride over simple things and humble encounters. In an age where we are pompous of our possessions and achievements, my grandfather represented modesty. Where we are constantly scared of the ‘known’ and the ‘created’ (the likes of technologies, development and commodities), my grandfather feared only the unknown and organic mysteries of nature and what it had to unfold.
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