Grandpa..

Grandpa


I never met my maternal grandfather; he died 6 years before I was born. A lawyer of some repute, my Grandpa had a huge family to take care of. But somehow he managed to marry off his daughters to respectable Malayalee grooms and by the time death began to knock on his doors, all his daughters and sons had settled down to a comfortable lifestyle.

It was mother who used to tell me interesting stories about him. Mother used to say, “Your Grandpa was a very quiet and reserved individual. Rarely have I seen him lose his temper.” But mother’s words never really managed to satisfy my curiosity and I wanted to know more about the person that I had never met.

On one of my numerous visits to Kerala, I happened to discover a set of diaries that belonged to Grandpa. It was an amazing discovery, one that kept me occupied for hours on end. The oldest diary related the events that took place in 1932. That was eighteen years before my mother was born. The next few diaries belonged to the time period between 1970 and 1977.

I wondered how the 1932 diary managed to survive the test of time. I got my answer when I read the following entry in one of his later diaries-“Spent some of my time going through the 1932 diary.” It dawned upon me that Grandpa may have taken special care of the 1932 journal and ensured that it survived beyond his time. What was so special about that diary? I haven’t been able to figure it out.

Grandpa’s diaries revealed his love for the game of cricket. He regularly listed the scorecard of the test matches that involved India. In those days, there was no television and Grandpa had to rely on the 9 PM- All India Radio News Broadcast to get the latest updates. There was also a passing mention about a certain player, Viv Richards, scoring 192 unbeaten runs in the second test match of his debut series against India.

I found it difficult to read some of the diaries that he wrote towards the end of his life. It seemed as if he endured great difficulty in writing his entries. Some of the pages were left blank and yet others bore nothing, but vague scribbles. His hands were probably shaking when he tried to pen his thoughts.

I enquired with my mother. She told me that Grandpa suffered from cancer and had met with a painful death. Morphine injections had done little to alleviate his pain. I looked at the diaries. The scribbles no longer looked illegible. They spoke volumes about a silent battle fought against the Decree of Fate.