In a couple of years, my grandfather, whom I call by ‘Dadu’, would be promoted to 75th year of his life. Nothing in my eyes, except, a tuft of white remaining on his top, rowed creases along his once-smooth face, a cane synchronizing his pair of feet and a white long loincloth shielding his groin and femur, could have validated his proximity to 75.
His frail cardiac moves, in sixty fleeting beats of clock, never made up to the conventional seventy-two rhythms. But, the way his lively emotions fluxed in and out, not even the one in his youth, I bet, could have strove to equate him.
Paying not even an iota of heed to the sting those invisible crystals of ice cream inflicted upon his bumpy teeth-line, he, nonchalantly, relished every spoon of his favorite most ‘Kesar-Pista’. Regardless of the shivers his veined hands struggled with, his itch to get the knack of my video game kit knew no ifs and neither, buts. Of our mornings together, along the shrub-lined avenue, I could have succumbed, but not him, to the opposing sloth and bicycle not. On his side bed-table, the Vedas towered upon, while ‘tinkles’ too found its abode.
Only if words could gauge my youthfully aged grandfather, I would have squiggled endlessly.
Yes, my ‘Dadu’ was in his seventies, albeit never lived like one.
By Prerna Daga