A Tree in Rajawadi

Grandpa Tells a Story

My grandparents’ house is quite old. In the time it came into being, my grandparents must have been one among many migrants in Mumbai. Along with many others they ended up in this  piece of allotted land that was reclaimed from marsh. Everything I know of it before the 70s is mere anecdote and by all accounts it was just a very ordinary cottage, the kind that might have dotted many workers colonies in India. I, always willing to attach romantic notions to the rough and the simple, prefer to retain my assumptions that it was charming, semi-rural and devoid of even a slick of middle class aspiration. The houses were set out in rows and many shared walls with the neighbouring house. It was life on the fringes of a big city, the amenities a distance away or still to come. As lives and incomes changed, many were refurbished.  Additional rooms were added as families expanded. Small strips of gardens ran alongside houses and most were perhaps, like my grandparents', very Indian gardens that housed sacred plants and fruit trees. This is the house I remember from my childhood visits. I have fragmented memories of that time – the playtime of sleepy afternoons, cricket in the lanes and the blaze of roadside anthimantharai (mirabilis jalapa). And of course being doted on and utterly spoiled by my grandfather with many stolen visits to eat forbidden foods. Then again as lives changed the houses were rebuilt, as my grandparents' was. Old patches of garden have given way to indifferent landscaping. Homes now conform to modern ideas and the low structures, the whitewash and asbestos roofs have long disappeared. Along with that much of the next generation has disappeared too, in search of their own fortunes. A community exists but the bonds neighbours build by sharing lanes and walls for a long period of time is slowly vanishing. My grandparents and their friends are perhaps the last of this time.

Whenever I visit my grandparents’ house, I think of its history and that of my own family – the people I have been closest to all my life. This time too it was no different. Inside the house there was a sense of misery, a feeling that the promise of happiness was not even a faint scent in the air. But outside the minutiae of life continued. Asoka trees still frame the window of my grandfather’s room. Squirrels  constantly run up and down the mango tree. Indifferent as the landscaping is, a few ixora plants bloom here and there. Snails leave iridescent trails. The rain pelts down, drips off the walls, the leaves. The cats stroll in and out of the house, perhaps drawn by the off chance of a squirrel meal. I think of these as constants but of course new life has pushed through the unseen, underlying debris of the past.  Then somehow my grandfather became part of all that has been swept away.

Grief is a simple thing; we all experience it the same way. I can say I lost a grandfather and everyone will understand what that might mean. I can write about him, about the life we shared, but it is of little interest to anyone except the two of us. It simply suffices to say, "my grandfather died and I am very sad", a kind of footnote to the way my grandfather would describe the events of his life – as if it was nothing, just events punctuating two points. Even though the journey he made was long and complex, even though he would most want to know what I had to say about his life and demise. But I will say this. When my mother was young, my grandfather used to enliven their travels by picking out random people in the crowd and recounting stories about them. Many were so funny that my mother would collapse helpless with laughter. Somehow this encapsulates the world view he provided us with – both that the world outside of family is interesting and to be explored and that a light touch must be brought to life. Accompanying that light touch was also the grinch in him which no doubt lives on as a bit of darkness in our own personas.

Inexorably, slowly my grandparents’ house will also vanish, a victim of time like everything else. Even the spirits that surround it will eventually leave. For the moment my grandmother, frail as she is, remains a last link. So the house stands - forlorn but still sturdy. It's music is muffled these days but like my grandfather’s voice I hear it often. And the music, the voices of the past fill me with a deep sadness but are also exceedingly pleasant.

For my grandfather, R. Muthuswamy (1922-2010)

Postscript: The title of this post references an earlier one.
And my grandfather's own writings here.