| My grandfather died a year ago.
I never saw him after he died. I imagined him on his back. Laying there. Unmoving; Lifeless. I never got to see him after he died. I was too busy with work. But I could imagine him on his back. His glasses on his old wrinkled face. His body, lying there, motionless. I remembered how he drove me, in his "buggy;" a volkswagon bug, with a hand shift at the wheel, and room for three in the front. I remembered the hot leather of the front seat on a warm afternoon in Bombay and the scattered light streaming in from the dusty windshield. I remembered how he was a kind gentle man who was always too well-treating of his grandchildren. He always loved it when we came and visited him, and used to call us "his babies" My Dada always loved me. Always spoilt me. And I wish that when I was 5, I hadn't kicked him in the knee, for trying to make me clean up my toys. |