Random Talk : Eulogies and Prespectives

As I start writing this the time is 11 13 PM. Funnily enough the clock in my room tells me the time is 

actually 11 55 PM. I set it so that it would be 42 minutes faster than the actual time. This is not something I did to help me hurry up; because every time I look up at the clock I know that it is around forty minutes faster. I did it, rather because it reminds me of perspectives. This is how I would describe it; someone may look at it and say that the time is wrong, but I know that the time is wrong and that, to me, it makes it right that the clock is faster than the actual time. It would actually be wrong for me, if the clock was exactly on time. Perspective.

Perspective shifts are an important part of everyday life that, I believe, everyone fails to understand completely. In any argument there are always two sides and from different perspectives both are wrong and both are right. Both parties can be justified. My little clock reprogramming fiasco, reminds me every day that I have a unique perspective, and so does every other person that I will meet today.

I can justify why I haven’t been writing stuff regularly. But that justification will only fit my perspective. So I am not going to justify it. I am going to accept the fact that society and social norms require you to conform to certain predetermined perspectives and according to, generally every other perspective in this universe, I have been lazy. I guess there must be some truth to it, if it is the majority consensus. I digress; I have just been lazy. What else is new?

I want to spend some time to talk about something personal, that I feel like I have bottled up for some time now. Jan 31^st 2016, my maternal Grand Father, Shri N Srinivasan, passed away. I never really spoke about it a lot. You live, you die, and that’s just a part of life. In fact it is something that he has told me. But I never really recorded what he meant to me as a person. I don’t want to continue that any longer.

I have known my grandfather, as everyone usually does, from my birth. He has always been, when I was young at least, a really commanding presence. He was a practical man, and he was a pious man. I am glad to say that I have inherited one half of him; I am sure most of you know which. I have a smaller brother, and I have two cousin sisters.   Since a very young age, we used to be really close, and while life has happened in the last few years, I still hold a deep regard for them. Coming back to the point, my grandfather was very much a disciplined man and he required us to be the same. So that meant that we couldn’t shout a lot when we played around and this also meant that we couldn’t watch the TV when the news was on.

He was a voracious reader. He read a lot of books on general knowledge, history and science. He was also a subscriber of the Reader’s Digest. His collection of books is one of the most impressive ones that I have ever seen, not because of its size, but more so because of the books that he had. For a long time, I hated how strict he was, but that would never stop me from enjoying a book with him. Keep in mind that this was all when I was pretty young, try third grade.

I remember a few things very distinctly. I remember going on a bus with him and m grandmother. I remember walking to the Britannia factory with him. I remember him carrying me when I could not walk any further. I remember eating one of his most favorite things with him; Cassata Ice Cream. Now when I remember all these things I can’t help but beat myself over the fact that I can’t put them in context. I can’t remember what led to all of these things, and his leaves me in perpetual fear that one day; I will wake up and not even remember them. I cherish these memories a lot, but they all happened a long time back.

It is true that you only remember the good things in life. I don’t remember when he got his stroke. All I remember is that I was still young and that for a long time he was bed ridden. I remember things vaguely, because I chose not to remember the struggle that he went through. The stroke was extremely devastating. His memory was impaired and that meant that he had to put a lot of effort into remembering things which were not a huge part of his life. He was an encyclopedia of facts, and after the stroke, he would randomly forget things and I would have to help him remember.

A part of my love or English comes from him. He was a walking dictionary. You could ask a word for something and he would be able to say it immediately. What broke me was how much he struggled to remember. Time went on, and despite having frequent medical problems he did get a little bit better in between, before he got worse.

Once again I can’t seem to remember the details of it all. All I can remember is how such a man I had come to respect and revere had suddenly become a child. All I can remember is how he used to smile when he called out to me, when I visited, and held on to my hand. All I remember is how much more I talked to him, and how much I came to value our time together. AS I write this I can’t help but imagine how lost he must have been, and I take solace in the fact that I was someone who could help him find his way back.

I’d like to believe that I was his favorite of his four grand children. I know that it seems selfish, but I cherish every moment I spent with him even when others seemed to get frustrated. The common knowledge that we seemed to share and the interests we shared probably gave me more patience to talk to him, despite the problems he faced.

He never recovered completely from the stroke. Soon, his vision got worse partly because of his cataract problem and partly because of his medical condition. His ability to assess the present decreased gradually and this led to further complications. But I don’t remember all that. I remember talking to him for hours about World War Two, I remember Talking to him about Vassili Zaitsev; about Adolf Hitler. I remember explaining things about the ocean to him. I remember him talking about the twin towers and about the titanic. I remember him sharing a lot of his past with me. How he used to go and watch movies and how his experience was in the NCC.

I don’t remember how helpless he was in everyday life. I don’t remember how he suffered from dementia near the end. I don’t remember how he couldn’t identify his own home. I don’t remember the one time he told me that he hated me because I was abandoning him in a place that was not his home, despite it being his own bedroom. I don’t remember him crying to take him home. I don’t remember him saying that it would be a better existence if he was dead that to suffer the way he was every single day. I don’t remember how many tears I have shed since his passing.

All I remember is that, I was there with him whenever I could. I was there to help him find his way to the bathroom when he needed to. I was there to help him walk to the living room so that he could watch the news despite the news being over half an hour before. I remember me spelling out words and him appreciating me for it. I remember him giving me money to buy and eat Cassata Ice Cream despite not being able to share it with me. I remember his craving for sweets despite being a sugar patient. I remember helping him find his way back home by walking him around his bedroom and back where he started. I remember me doing the ritual where you show the soul its way back by lighting a stick soaked in ghee.

I regret a lot of things. I regret for not being patient enough sometimes, I regret not knowing the answer to some of his questions. I regret not having him share more stories of World War Two. I regret not being able to lead him home that one time. I regret not being able to see him one last time. I regret not being able to go into his house and to hear him call my name, smile and search for my hand.

The one thing that I cherish more than anything else is that I was able to support him as he supported me when I was a kid and I couldn’t walk further. I find solace in the fact that I was able to support him when he couldn’t support himself, I that he always asked for me when he wanted something, even before my mom.

I do not know where he is now. But wherever he is, he will always be a part of me. I am afraid that one day I will wake up and not remember all this clearly, but somehow I have a feeling that that will not happen.

I don’t know how many tears were shed as I was writing this, but all of them were worth it. I will never be able to do justice to the legacy of my grandfather, but I hope that this piece gives me something to look back and say that I tried. That’s it for now.

Good Night.