To my grandfather

Diary keeping is usually a hobby for somebut those who practice it more often are bound to turn it into art. One suchartist and diarist I knew all my life was my very own grandfather who we allaffectionately called ‘Papa’. When an old man interestingly pens down everythought in his diary, no matter how mundane or how celestial, it can really bea source of respite for his grand daughter who one day comes in possession of itwhile randomly sifting through his orderly array of books in his large almirah.As I held the diary in my hands , it ceased to be just a diary butmetamorphosed into a treasure book with its neat silvery pages as windowstraversing me to his past life , his memories, his share of joys and sorrows.Every word neatly scribbled like pearls scattered all over the pages which Ivow to keep preserved, and forever treasured. As I shuffle through the pages, Iread the lines how his beloved mother lovingly called him ‘bulbul’ or ‘muakhte'(pearl) and how he wished to be a bird someday so that he could carry hismother over his wings to show her the world around. The diary dazzling with hiscalligraphic handwriting writes how he travelled 16 kms back and forth on foot,from his hometown to the place where his school was located which in itselftalks of his hard-work and his struggle he underwent to achieve success andaccomplishments which he achieved later in his life. He exemplified thequintessential self-made man who lived his entire life as per simple living,high thinking value system. While I read his stories inscribed over the pages,I almost heard his soothing yet powerful voice reading me every word he haswritten thus, leaving my eyes moist and my heart numb.

It’s so difficult and discomforting torealise that the person you’ve spent your entire life with is suddenly no more,and what follows after that is his reflections and his echoes resounding inevery corner of the house. I grew up in the warm company of my most deargarndpa who had been my life long teacher, advisor, fellow-reader and travelpartner. So many places we visited together and so many more were yet to bevisited. He once told me how he desired to pay a visit to the tomb of AllamaIqbal who is laid at rest in Lahore, Pakistan as he was his ardent admirer. Hewas an avid reader and our common love for literature made us spend more andmore time with each other. We often enjoyed long and lively conversationsfilled with sweet recessions of poetry from his two favourite books which hadto be Kuliyaat-e-Iqbal and Kalaam-e-Sheikh ul Alam and I would often respondwith the couplets from either Deewan-e-Ghalib or Faiz. Not just the boundlesspassion for literature that he possessed but he was also a great mathematician,something I was never really good at. He would always help me solve thosemathematical problems and numericals and took no time to come up with thesolutions in the easiest possible ways. He was not just my mentor at homebut also my teacher at our local Darsgah who taught me the basics of holy Quranand with his consistent effort made me memorise various surahs of the holy bookfor which I will always be grateful to him. This further swings me back to mychildhood days when he would help me gather multitude of flowers of variety ofhues and make a bouquet of those luminous flowers so that I could present it tomy favourite teacher on teacher’s day. Gardening and nursing of flowers wasanother of his prime hobbies and his labour hours at his garden threw opena  rich and radiant view of lush green garden abound with colorfulflowers. There was almost nothing he wasn’t good at and he performed every taskwith utmost sincerity and perfection.

   

My grandfather , late Mr Muhammad MukhtarBhat was highly devoted and religous man who all his life followed the Islamicprinciples in letter and spirit. He would always read and revise Quran and itsvarious interpretations.

Grandfathers are the most patientlisteners, amazing storytellers and if patiently heard, they could really turnout to be your best of buddies. He was one gem of a person whose utmostdisciplined life taught me how not to be messed or disarrayed but to be highlyconsistent and orgainsed in life. Now that he is not there, it still feels heis right there over his bed, holding a book in his hands with his spectacleson, and reading the lines with a sweet smile at his lips lighting up the entirespace around him. His room and his worn out clothes still smell of hispleasantness and the whole house still reverberates with his melodious hums.

I can endlessly write about him but wordswill fall short to capture his highness and nobility, his greatness. He hasleft a sea of kind deeds and practices for all of us to be followed. I will alwaysbe indebted to him for every kind word I say or any kind deed I do as he hastaught me the way to live life with utmost simplicity, religiosity andperseverance. He will continue to live with me in the deepest recesses of myheart and I will always find him being my torch bearer in the darkest of mydays. He will always stand tall like an old chinar tree embracing us all underhis shadow and I like a bird perching on the twigs of his advices will vow tochirp, sing and enchant his songs of strength , love and wisdom.

Bazila Ehsan Bhat is a Research Scholar atCentral University of Kashmir, Department of English.

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