The Circle of Life

My eyes welled over as they placed the lid upon the coffin. This was the last time I’d be seeing Grandpa George. I decided to quietly think of all our times together as the priest recited his final prayers.

My earliest memory of Grandpa George is from a photograph in our family album. He’s stooping down to light a lamp while carrying me. It was the house warming ceremony of the first house my parents bought. I was a little over two years old and we’d just moved out of my grandparents’ place. I was terrified of staying apart from Grandpa George so I’d held onto him without letting go even as he lit the lamp. We’d still visit their place every weekend after moving out and on those visits I’d run up and climb onto Grandpa George.

“Appappa* let’s go and buy something from the shop”, I’d say.

I would do this every time we visited and every time he’d take me. We’d buy some candy or a stick of gum, occasionally even a packet of chips. And in the nights after dinner we’d sit on the chairs in our garden and stare up at the sky. He’d tell me about the stars and the planets and I’d listen to him open-mouthed. I vividly remember being amazed when he told me that the brightest star in the sky was actually not a star, but the planet Venus. Eventually, we’d get bored of the sky and the stars and Grandpa George would start telling me stories about his childhood and his youth. He loved talking about his past and I loved listening to it. I’d always imagine my grandfather as a thin little boy not very different from myself. On Sunday mornings the entire family would go to the church across the street and each time I’d seek out Grandpa George’s hand and he’d help me cross the road.

The years rolled by and a myriad memories along with them.

I was now a seventeen year-old on the cusp of adulthood. I remembered the time we’d gone visiting some relatives, right after Grandpa George had recovered from a severe illness. The illness had reduced him to a shadow of his former sprightly self. As we were about to cross a busy road I felt an old wrinkled hand seek out mine. It was Grandpa George. He clasped my hands tightly — just as I once used to — and I helped him cross the road. It struck me that day how time had so cruelly reversed our roles.

Later when I was staying at a hostel while at college, I’d visit my grandparents for a couple of weeks each year. During those times he’d ask me to sit by his bed and he’d tell me about his childhood and his youth. All stories that I’d heard many times before and remembered every word of. But his eyes lit up as he spoke of those old times. So I listened. Every time I listened. During these visits Grandpa George would ask me whether I wanted to come along each time he’d go to buy groceries. And I’d go along with him each time. I’d often be watching a movie or playing with my cousins but each time he asked, I went. One thing my grandfather never begrudged me was his time and I wasn’t going to deny him mine.

The priest finished the final prayer and we laid him to rest. Grandpa George never truly died. He lives on through all these memories. Memories that my family and I shall always cherish.

Footnotes:

*Apppapa : grandfather in Malayalam