Let's eat fish cutlets at Bobbys
My grandfather passed away last week. It wasn't out of the blue, we knew it was coming, but that didn't make it less sad. I had been close to him as a kid. We would go there every summer and stay with my grandparents. Being born in June, I have celebrated almost half my birthday with them. But in recent years, with my studies, college and job, I somehow lost touch, didn't find time to visit him.
The last time we properly spoke to each other was at my brother's wedding. He told me he was getting weak and I told him that I didn't see it and he looked just as young, gave him a hug and then rushed off to do something.
I went back to my grandparent's place last week after I think a good five years. It was exactly the same, somehow the tornado in life hadn't managed to reach this quaint road in Gorakhpur where they lived. It was just as I had left it. The same sofa, with my grandfather's neatly stacked table. The clock with the little green light, the tree outside the house and the door that had to be jiggled before closing. I was transported back to 2005. Preparing a dance for my grandparent's anniversary and helping with the preparations. I would give a performance every year, we would play tambola, my grandparents would exchange garlands and we would proceed to dinner. But the best part was after the party was over. We would all sit in the living room, having changed into our night suits and would tear open the gifts, wrapped neatly in gold and silver.
In the last couple of years, I forgot about all of this. I forgot how he used to be. My grandfather was a strict man. He was someone who had a very precise schedule and stuck to it. He loved his TV shows, and cards. He loved going to this place called Bobby's to eat fish cutlets. He loved new shirts and would often go out and buy one for himself. This is all that I can remember of him. An organized, meticulous man, whose face would just light up whenever I came to visit him.
PS: I am going to post some stories about him soon.
The last time we properly spoke to each other was at my brother's wedding. He told me he was getting weak and I told him that I didn't see it and he looked just as young, gave him a hug and then rushed off to do something.
I went back to my grandparent's place last week after I think a good five years. It was exactly the same, somehow the tornado in life hadn't managed to reach this quaint road in Gorakhpur where they lived. It was just as I had left it. The same sofa, with my grandfather's neatly stacked table. The clock with the little green light, the tree outside the house and the door that had to be jiggled before closing. I was transported back to 2005. Preparing a dance for my grandparent's anniversary and helping with the preparations. I would give a performance every year, we would play tambola, my grandparents would exchange garlands and we would proceed to dinner. But the best part was after the party was over. We would all sit in the living room, having changed into our night suits and would tear open the gifts, wrapped neatly in gold and silver.
In the last couple of years, I forgot about all of this. I forgot how he used to be. My grandfather was a strict man. He was someone who had a very precise schedule and stuck to it. He loved his TV shows, and cards. He loved going to this place called Bobby's to eat fish cutlets. He loved new shirts and would often go out and buy one for himself. This is all that I can remember of him. An organized, meticulous man, whose face would just light up whenever I came to visit him.
PS: I am going to post some stories about him soon.
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The best and most beautiful thing about him was that he was a strict father with a soft heart, and treated us daughters like son, even in those days
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