Incest Old Man

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When I was a little girl, my grandfather (my mother’s father) would take me with him while he went grocery shopping for his wife. We would walk down a small road in Dombivili, past the teenage boys playing cricket, past Kamath uncle’s snacks store and uphill towards the flour mill. But first, we would go to the vegetable vendors where he would pick out the healthiest drumsticks, melons and ivy gourds for the day’s sambar or kootan at home. We would then go to a store where he would inspect, haggle and purchase lentils and grains. Meanwhile, I would grab some Peppy wheel chips and sit on a tiny stool staring up at the loudly talking and wildly gesticulating adults. Finally, thatha would look down and hold his hand out for me to hold. For my troubles, he would add a Cadbury dairy milk bar to the Peppy chips and hand me my bag of goodies. “Don’t tell your mother”, he would say and we would walk back hand in hand. Sometimes, he would forgetfully grip my hand as hard as a handshake but even as a child, I understood the strength of his grip was only a barometer for his fierce love, and I would happily trounce back home with him.
Yet, I wasn’t very good at doing what I was told much like all children. The very first thing I did when the door of my grandfather’s tiny one bedroom apartment opened was to run to my mother, giggle and show her my grocery trip gifts. She would shake her head and reprimand my grandfather who pretended as though he had never even heard her. A few hours later, as we sat for lunch, I would query my grandmother on all the vegetables she used to make the dishes. I hated melons, begrudgingly ate drumsticks and was amused by the ivy gourd. This was was my grandfather’s favorite vegetable — especially since it softened wonderfully in cooking heat and was the easiest for his toothless self to chew. In the region of India that my family comes from, ivy gourds were known as kovakkai but I called it, as a child, ‘kovamkkai’. Kovam meaning anger and kai meaning vegetable. I always told my grandfather that he had been a very angry young person because he consumed so much of it. It was an overused, underwhelming little joke that I constantly teased my grandfather with, but he always laughed as though it was the very first time he was hearing it.
You see, my grandfather had spent his early 20s training in the army. Those years had left him with an addiction for order, discipline and stoicism. I know of this from my mother who would tell me, as I grew up, that my grandfather had become a man she could no longer recognize the instant I was born. His first grandchild (who would also be his only granddaughter) had innocuously loosened all the strings that had held him so serious & uptight for all these years. As a father, he had been a quietly angry man — hardly anybody spoke to his face directly. Growing up, my mother and her two siblings had to tiptoe around the house once he had gone to sleep at 8:30 PM sharp and wake up before 7 AM latest. His silent disapproval was so enormously frightening that no one could digest that this same man let me break every one of his rules so casually.
I was allowed to play with his wrinkled cheeks standing on his lap sometimes squashing his knee with my feet, sleep in till 10 or even 11 AM, eat as many chocolates I wanted, and run around the house making raucous noise as my grandfather would calmly rock away in his chair while watching my inordinately energetic, tiny self bolt around the house at top speed. When I was a baby, he would spend hours putting me to sleep, sacrificing his own schedule, only for me to wake up shrieking when he laid me in the cradle. Once, my mother told me, I had puked out some chocolate cake, while falling asleep on his shoulder, all over his back but he had not stopped to change or even noticed his soiled vest and had instead continued walking around the room so as to not wake me from my nap.
When I was two or three and old enough to voice my needs, my mother sent me off to live with my grandparents and her brother for the weekend. I ended up living there for a week, in complete bliss. I was obedient and was allowed little treats from time to time. In the warm afternoons, my grandmother would grind dosa batter while I chased flies in the balcony or counted the black dots on the marble floor. I was very curious and very silly. I do not remember most of that week but years later, my grandmother would tell me that after a week they had forced my uncle to take me home because I had hardly missed my mother and were very worried I would never want to go back.
My grandparents then decided to pay us weekend visits. They would take the Karjat — Mumbai CSMT Fast Local from Dombivili East all the way to Kurla via Chhatrapati Sivaji Terminus and then take a bus from Kurla’s Nehru Nagar bus depot to Chembur — an hour-long commute that they made on their own. And every Sunday evening they left, I cried like it was the end of the world. And in some sense it was. At 4, my grandpa was my world and I was the world for my grandpa.
My grandfather was, in every way, my loudest cheerleader. When we moved across the Indian Ocean to a faraway land, communication technology did not exist, and we had to make expensive weekend phonecalls set in the backdrop of my father tapping his feet impatiently at the time my mother and I took in chatting with patti-thatha. As I grew towards double digits, my grandparents became a set. One for one, all or nothing. Patti-thatha became a single word that represented summer vacations, endless laughter, and crunchy, fried ribbon pokkodam. Whenever we called them, my grandfather would ask, ‘How’s my very very very very very very very very very very… (you get the point) good girl doing?’ Back in India, my aunt and I would count the ‘very’s carefully and the naughtier I was, the more verys got added. To him, I was the smartest, loveliest, best girl in the world. (SPOILER: I wasn’t).
My mother and her parents would also write letters to each other. It wasn’t poetic, romantic, vintage or special. It was just what it was. Much like Whatsapp, it was the way we could talk about less urgent things like the sweltering heat, my mother’s cross-stitch work or the size of shopping malls in the United Arab Emirates. My grandfather’s letters to my mother were all in Tamil except for the last page written exceptionally in English so that I could read and respond. He had beautiful lettering and having grown up in the shadow of British colonial rule, was stubborn in his belief that I must be brought up learning to speak and write in excellent English to succeed.
I read somewhere, once, that we do not want to hurt the ones we love but we can only hurt the ones we love. One holiday back in India, we got into a shiny blue car to head to a Gujarati thali restaurant and I excitedly, sitting on my thatha’s lap, pulled the door shut. My grandfather gave a low grunt and my patti gasped as my father hurried from the driver’s seat to open our car door. I had unwittingly sliced my grandfather’s finger that had been resting on the edge. As we drove to the hospital, I cried inconsolably. I had never seen so much blood and I was terrified. Not by the blood but for my grandpa. I was probably only six or seven but I experienced the deep, unrelenting pain of hurting someone you loved so expansively that their pain became yours and you felt helpless, miserable, and crushing sadness all at once. I fell asleep with the exhaustion of crying as I clutched my grandpa’s chest as we drove to the hospital.
When I was 10, my grandparents visited us in the Middle East. My grandmother marveled at our beautiful garden and plucked roses and jasmines every day for her many garlands. We found kovakkai at the markets and cooked it a lot more. We lived in a small township, far away from the capital city as well as what would become the most famous city in the region — Dubai. Our house was in a small township close to the border of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. A satellite town bang in the middle of a desert much like a city in a post-apocalyptic world. It was the kind of city that sprung up after zombie invasions or in a Fallout Shelter game. It was in the middle of nowhere. In fact, Courage the cowardly dog lived a few miles away.
In the mornings, my grandfather would go for long walks around the town as I would leave for school — usually late — backpack swinging wildly, hair coming undone as I ran furiously down the road before the 8 o’clock bell. One afternoon, when I came back, my grandmother told me the stunning story of my grandfather losing his way that morning. With no maps, no direction, he had taken an unknown path and ended up in a place, far from home, that he did not recognize. But his years of training in the army had given him a dormant set of survival skills. Unbeknownst to any of us, he had memorized every single number in the phonebook and had managed to request a stranger walking by for his cellphone, called my dad at work and described his surroundings to get instructions on getting home.
His resilience, resourcefulness, and presence of mind at 75+ amused and awed all of us. It was hard to imagine what it might have felt like for a man, first time in his seven decades on earth, living overseas and getting lost in a country so vastly different from his own, to find himself abruptly surrounded by an alien language, food, and even flora and still map out a way to head back home. Years later, this story still gives me the inspiration to metaphorically seek paths to my own home in another very different land.
Soon after this, I began taking walks with him. I was the one holding his hand now and leading him everywhere. But this would be one of the last few memories we made together. When he returned to India, later that year, he suddenly got very sick. Soon after, he would pass away. Even in his death though, he allowed my talents to flourish. I was tasked with addressing the memorial notice envelopes by hand and employed my finest calligraphy skills. The years of letter writing had given me strong penmanship skills and I received many nods of appreciation as the cards were distributed.
I was too young when I lost my most raucous supporter to truly understand the gravity of his absence. Over the years, I have amassed encouragement from strangers, friends, family, and lovers who have all buoyed me during the days I have felt inconsequential.
Yet, it was my grandfather who instilled the unwavering flame of possibility in me. In his eyes, I saw myself as someone who could be anything, anybody and that reflection is one that I value the most. Although to his own kids, he taught how to love with efficiency and discipline, I learned from him how to love with careless abandon. I learned how love can often be sacrificial and self-effacing. I learned also how to not spend the last few decades of one's life trying to compensate for being lost in the daily drill of being the sole breadwinner.
Of course, I live a life far more privileged than he could have ever imagined. I think, in some ways, he wanted me to have everything he couldn’t. I was the product of years of toil, investment. Countless hours of work just to elevate our family to a place where his granddaughter, 24 years old, can afford to spend her weekends writing in the sun.
In all of my previous memoirs, cancer has always swooped in and taken center stage — blurring out most of my other memories. Its dark, poisonous roots often corrupting all of my other memories. I was so fixated on the malady that ripped my life into a ‘before’ and ‘after’ that I often forget of my heritage, my inheritances. For instance, my thatha gave me a part of my nose, less aquiline than his, softened by my paternal genes, but retaining its strong downward slant. He tended to my virtues as a gardener does; gently snipping at weeds and watering the roots. Yet, he relegated most of the harsher sculpting to my parents — he was here to show me the living in life.
We don’t always remember the ones who mould us when we are really young. My grandfather is a distant foggy memory — one that I have to recall with great difficulty but once I remembered the little things, I remembered it all.
In the light of his fading footsteps, I remember his warm, naive belief that I was the very very very very best and I promise myself that I will do everything, in my ability, to strive and to be that.
Sambar: a lentil-based vegetable stew, cooked with tamarind broth, originating from Maharashtra spread across in Tamilnadu from Thanjavur It is popular in South Indian and Sri Lankan cuisines.
Kootan: a very typical Kerala curry dish which is a curry where usually a vegetable like green (raw) plantain or taro root is cooked in a spicy sauce.
Thatha: an affectionate term for grandpa used by many Tamilians. My usage was not specific to paternal/maternal lineage. In this case, it was my maternal grandfather.
Patti: an affectionate term for grandma used by many Tamilians. My usage was not specific to paternal/maternal lineage. In this case, it was my maternal grandmother
Peppy: a childhood snack; a packet of tomato flavored wheel chips
Story-teller / In Progress: Environmental Science, Personal Reflection, Feminism / MSc Environmental Engineering / Open to writing commissions
all kinds of stories, self-reflection and memoirs of being
Story-teller / In Progress: Environmental Science, Personal Reflection, Feminism / MSc Environmental Engineering / Open to writing commissions
all kinds of stories, self-reflection and memoirs of being
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There are currently no responses for this story.
When I was a little girl, my grandfather (my mother’s father) would take me with him while he went grocery shopping for his wife. We would walk down a small road in Dombivili, past the teenage boys playing cricket, past Kamath uncle’s snacks store and uphill towards the flour mill. But first, we would go to the vegetable vendors where he would pick out the healthiest drumsticks, melons and ivy gourds for the day’s sambar or kootan at home. We would then go to a store where he would inspect, haggle and purchase lentils and grains. Meanwhile, I would grab some Peppy wheel chips and sit on a tiny stool staring up at the loudly talking and wildly gesticulating adults. Finally, thatha would look down and hold his hand out for me to hold. For my troubles, he would add a Cadbury dairy milk bar to the Peppy chips and hand me my bag of goodies. “Don’t tell your mother”, he would say and we would walk back hand in hand. Sometimes, he would forgetfully grip my hand as hard as a handshake but even as a child, I understood the strength of his grip was only a barometer for his fierce love, and I would happily trounce back home with him.
Yet, I wasn’t very good at doing what I was told much like all children. The very first thing I did when the door of my grandfather’s tiny one bedroom apartment opened was to run to my mother, giggle and show her my grocery trip gifts. She would shake her head and reprimand my grandfather who pretended as though he had never even heard her. A few hours later, as we sat for lunch, I would query my grandmother on all the vegetables she used to make the dishes. I hated melons, begrudgingly ate drumsticks and was amused by the ivy gourd. This was was my grandfather’s favorite vegetable — especially since it softened wonderfully in cooking heat and was the easiest for his toothless self to chew. In the region of India that my family comes from, ivy gourds were known as kovakkai but I called it, as a child, ‘kovamkkai’. Kovam meaning anger and kai meaning vegetable. I always told my grandfather that he had been a very angry young person because he consumed so much of it. It was an overused, underwhelming little joke that I constantly teased my grandfather with, but he always laughed as though it was the very first time he was hearing it.
You see, my grandfather had spent his early 20s training in the army. Those years had left him with an addiction for order, discipline and stoicism. I know of this from my mother who would tell me, as I grew up, that my grandfather had become a man she could no longer recognize the instant I was born. His first grandchild (who would also be his only granddaughter) had innocuously loosened all the strings that had held him so serious & uptight for all these years. As a father, he had been a quietly angry man — hardly anybody spoke to his face directly. Growing up, my mother and her two siblings had to tiptoe around the house once he had gone to sleep at 8:30 PM sharp and wake up before 7 AM latest. His silent disapproval was so enormously frightening that no one could digest that this same man let me break every one of his rules so casually.
I was allowed to play with his wrinkled cheeks standing on his lap sometimes squashing his knee with my feet, sleep in till 10 or even 11 AM, eat as many chocolates I wanted, and run around the house making raucous noise as my grandfather would calmly rock away in his chair while watching my inordinately energetic, tiny self bolt around the house at top speed. When I was a baby, he would spend hours putting me to sleep, sacrificing his own schedule, only for me to wake up shrieking when he laid me in the cradle. Once, my mother told me, I had puked out some chocolate cake, while falling asleep on his shoulder, all over his back but he had not stopped to change or even noticed his soiled vest and had instead continued walking around the room so as to not wake me from my nap.
When I was two or three and old enough to voice my needs, my mother sent me off to live with my grandparents and her brother for the weekend. I ended up living there for a week, in complete bliss. I was obedient and was allowed little treats from time to time. In the warm afternoons, my grandmother would grind dosa batter while I chased flies in the balcony or counted the black dots on the marble floor. I was very curious and very silly. I do not remember most of that week but years later, my grandmother would tell me that after a week they had forced my uncle to take me home because I had hardly missed my mother and were very worried I would never want to go back.
My grandparents then decided to pay us weekend visits. They would take the Karjat — Mumbai CSMT Fast Local from Dombivili East all
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