Sarabjeet Garcha (India)
One evening, my grandfather made a bonfire of all the schoolbooks of my uncle, my father’s youngest brother. My uncle didn’t show the slightest hint of protest, nor did a single neighbour intervene as the scene unfolded under the cascade of a sombre dusk. Daddy, the oldest of four siblings, watched in complete silence, as did his brothers and only sister. They knew better than to even whisper as Grandfather emptied a tin of kerosene on the heap of books already aflame. “So you don’t want to go to school?” he raged. “All right! So be it. No school from today.” Thus ended my chacha’s formal education.
He had not yet completed primary school, but was already adept at playing truant from school and escaping to the movies. Repeated warnings from the principal as well as his father had failed to make him see sense. However, I remember him as a lively man with a sharp wit, great intelligence, and exceptional empathy, to say nothing of his talent for cooking. No wonder he was popular in the neighbourhood and among his friends. He likened himself to Bollywood heroes of the ’70s whose misfortune stood out on the big screen. It’s hard to say if it was one of them who made him seek solace in alcohol. His life became a continuum of intoxication, with intermittent episodes of sobriety, but he could never fully emerge out of the cave that sucked him deeper and deeper into the darkness that would spell his end in early middle age. Abandoned, insulted, and physically assaulted by his wife and two sons, he moved into the tailoring workshop where he worked. He never came home after that. One rainy morning, his body was discovered in a lane near one of the several notorious drinking dens in Nasik. He was forty-six.
My grandfather burned a lot more besides books that evening when he gave in to his fury and gave up on his son. He never shied away from paternal duty, yet he dithered when his errant son needed him the most. My grandmother was too invisible to come to the rescue of either husband or son. Absolute quiet was women’s lot those days, so I cannot blame her. But do I blame my grandfather? I do, despite everything that makes me adore and respect him. My chacha had been irreparably wronged. But then, so had been my grandfather—by his own sister, whom he looked up to for fatherly love after their father’s untimely death. She, however, could not look beyond her own interests. It is too late to find out whether my chacha fell victim to his father’s misdirected rage, but not too late to see the value of patience and open communication when life lands you in an ordeal as a parent.
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My phupha was eighteen when his mother died, leaving him to look after his eleven-year-old sister and seven-year-old brother. His father was busy salvaging a failing business of cloth and bespoke tailoring in old Dehradun. Neither father nor son knew the intricacies of housekeeping. All relatives turned their backs on the family steeped in misery, except one woman: Phupha-ji’s mami, who lived in the same city. She taught him to cook, clean, scrub, wash, wipe the floors, do the dishes, buy groceries, and get his sister and brother ready for school. For several months, she would come over to Phupha-ji’s house around midmorning after finishing her own household chores and not leave until evening. Phupha-ji learnt by simply observing her, and what he learnt has stood the test of time. Among all my friends, family and relatives, I haven’t seen a man more orderly than him. The sparkling cleanliness of his home astonishes as much as it inspires me. His two sons have inherited the same passion for tidiness. They too benefited from direct observation.
Phupha-ji’s brother wasn’t much different in habits from my chacha. His cinema time also eerily coincided with school hours. Following his basic sleuthing instinct, Phupha-ji caught him red-handed several times, yet the wayward brother showed no signs of improvement. But come what may, Phupha-ji persisted and somehow made him finish high school. Pushing him towards college was altogether another matter, though. Accepting defeat on that front, Phupha-ji, while pursuing his own higher studies, tried to make him interested in the family business. Soon, however, he realised that this endeavour was a surefire way to attract loss because of a lethal mix of irresponsibility, thievery and remorselessness. Ultimately, business sense prevailed over fraternal concern, and Phupha-ji decided to ensure that his brother’s food, clothing, shelter and entertainment needs were adequately met, the upshot being that the brother became a lifetime freeloader.
Phupha-ji became an able parent to his brother and sister. The latter fared well, treading the expected path of education and marriage. The brother, however, went out of hand. But he is alive.