Bittersweet Memories - 1. In Short

It was his 78^th birthday. He had just been discharged from the nursing home, and brought home the day before. By the time I reached his house, he’d shaven, bathed and changed into the new t-shirt my mum had bought for him. It wasn’t just his eyes that lit up when he saw me. He’d actually risen from the chair and opened the main door, calling out to my Grandma that he recognised the knock.

I did have one! I still do. And there are just two... well, now just one person in the world that recognises it, but that’s another story.

I’ll just give a brief history so you know what I am talking about. Hope I’m not boring you with this.

My grandparents wanted a daughter. Even since they had my father, who is the first of four... yes sons, they’d tried, over and over. But they were sensible people and knew, that there was no possible way they would be able to raise more than four children with the salary of a low ranking police officer that my Grandpa was.

They raised their children well, even in adversity.

When my mum was pregnant, they visited temples, mosques and churches; we’re Hindus, btw, praying for a daughter. Here, by ‘they’ I mean my grandparents and not my parents. And when I was born, well, the whole hospital wing was treated to sweets.

I’ve heard this story recounted a thousand times, if not more:

There was a nurse in the wing who, when handed the sweets, made a wayward comment: ‘Why are you so happy? It’s a girl, not a boy!’

Here, you have to understand that this is in India, and in 1985. Well, having a daughter just wasn’t something you celebrated, not that extravagantly anyway. So, what did my grandparents do? They had the poor woman removed from the wing!God, I hope she wasn’t fired!

But yes, that’s what they did. ‘We don’t want that kind of negative people around our child, Thank you!’ and she was shown the door. Did I mention my uncle and aunt were doctors in that same hospital, as well?

Anyway, after that no one else even dared to comment, whether good or bad.

We were a joint family, with more than 25 members living together in a huge house. Hence the requirement of a special knock. But, since my Grandpa worked for the state police, he was transferred right after I was born. What did they do then? They just took me along. I wasn’t even a month old.

I was brought up by them. And I still call my grandma, ‘Ma’. That’s what we Bengalis call our mum.

Anyway, so... back to the point, I lived and grew up with my grandparents till he retired and then we just settled back in the huge family. I never had to part with them. They were my ‘Parents’, and my own/real parents were just like my much older siblings, that shared my parents.

Boarding school life and college in a different state taught me to live without them in my life constantly, but where they were, was my home, always.

In return, I was their daughter, the ‘special one’, and well, this might sound just wrong, but I was treated better, way better than any of the children in my family that followed. Every time my Grandpa fell ill, he had a heart condition and had a pacemaker installed, he would invariably call for me. And no one, and I mean NO ONE, would be able to calm him but me.

I took a 3 hour flight home once from college in such an emergency.

As soon as I get close and place a hand on his head, or just hold his hand, he’d be okay, often chanting, ‘Oh you’re here, I’ll be okay now! It’s all okay now.’

And it would be. Every time!

It was his special day, and I’d bought him his favourite aftershave, like every year. It was a small routine we had, I’d never buy cheese, he’d buy it for me and he’d never buy after shave, I’d do that for him. It was like a secret, like a ritual, sounds silly... but you get the emotions behind them, right?

That day, by the time I got there, he was already all cleaned up, so he didn’t get a chance to use my gift right then. He promised me he would, the very next time he shaved, although I didn’t really need his promise, I knew him!

It was right after lunch when I had to call for an ambulance. We took him back to the nursing home and placed him on ventilators. I stayed with him though the whole ordeal, holding his hand, and even the doctors were amazed at how little resistance he put up that time to all the tubes and IVs.

I left him at ten pm, when my uncle relieved me from my post. For once my grandpa let me go willingly and told me he was okay; he looked okay, he’d had his dinner and he was just leaning back, reading a book. So I decided he would be okay for another 12 hours while I went home to take care of my hubby and get back to the nursing home the next morning.

I woke up at eight am to a phone call, the phone call.

Apparently, the last thing he’d said before going into the final cardiac arrest, and before cyanosis took his thoughts and speech away was, ‘I need a shave, I have to use the new aftershave I got yesterday.’

It's been over 2 years, I still have the bottle. I brought it home from the nursing home that day. It’s still sealed. It’s still in the back of my dressing table. It’s still half-unwrapped.

This was written when I read KC Grim's story, Best Day and Worst Day, which I think everyone should read, btw. I managed to say what i wanted to say for a long time. Or so I think!