Today is the sixth death anniversary of my grandfather. He would have been 94. I called up my grandmother and she was recollecting how he had passed away just minutes before I reached their home in Pune to see him. I was his only grandchild who was in the country during his illness and death.
My grandfather had a legendary sense of humour and would deliver the smartest and sharpest quips with a twinkle in his eye. My mother, uncle and I take after him in that respect, although none of us can claim to be as funny as him. He was a scientist and would find the most efficient way of doing even the most mundane of tasks. And, once he had found it, we had to do the task in that exact manner, which was sometimes infuriating. His love for food outlasted his digestive capacities, and often lead to stomach upsets in his final years.
He was a sickly child born of a mother on the cusp of middle age, so he wasn't tall and strapping. But he had an adventurous streak. I remember his stories of cycling around post-war Europe and of bad English breath and London under rationing. A decade later, he would transplant his young family to the U.S., long before it was fashionable for Indians to make that journey. My grandmother stories of those days paint a picture of a confident America which welcomed people from strange places. An America which was fascinated by my grandmother's colorful sarees. Anyway that is a blog for another day.
My grandfather had a legendary sense of humour and would deliver the smartest and sharpest quips with a twinkle in his eye. My mother, uncle and I take after him in that respect, although none of us can claim to be as funny as him. He was a scientist and would find the most efficient way of doing even the most mundane of tasks. And, once he had found it, we had to do the task in that exact manner, which was sometimes infuriating. His love for food outlasted his digestive capacities, and often lead to stomach upsets in his final years.
He was a sickly child born of a mother on the cusp of middle age, so he wasn't tall and strapping. But he had an adventurous streak. I remember his stories of cycling around post-war Europe and of bad English breath and London under rationing. A decade later, he would transplant his young family to the U.S., long before it was fashionable for Indians to make that journey. My grandmother stories of those days paint a picture of a confident America which welcomed people from strange places. An America which was fascinated by my grandmother's colorful sarees. Anyway that is a blog for another day.
No comments:
Post a Comment