My Grandfather, Cricket and Bushes

First on the whole Dubai Ports World thing, I have to hand it to W. Never let it be said that George W. Bush let xenophobia get in the way of cronyism.

Enough of that. Yes, enough.

On to the real star of tonight's post: My Grandfather (this would be my mother's father). He's in hospital at this moment awaiting a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastrostomy (i.e. feeding tube insertion). I spoke to him briefly this morning. He wasn't at his most coherent but we still talked about stuff; cricket, family, George W. Bush... you know, the usual.

My grandfather has always been one of the cornerstones of our family, especially in the eyes of his grandchildren. When we were small, he was the "cool" grandparent, getting us toys and openly letting us watch stuff on T.V. that the parental units would never allow (wrestling, fight scenes etc etc). He would even (random thought) get us clothes if he thought we'd like them (shorts, trousers, shirts etc). He always had our backs... covered.

So, funny story. My brother and I regularly played cricket (and we probably will this Summer too) in our grandparents' garden. There were bushes all over the place (these will be important later in this posting) and a couple of windows too. We would always hear dire threats - from the dictatorial panel comprising female members of the family – of the terrible consequences set to befall us should we ever break a window while playing. There were always moments of excitement (and paralyzing fear) any time a ball went near or bounced off one of these, but by God's grace, the windows held firm.

Except for this one sunny afternoon. We had convinced my grandfather to play with us (it was never really a difficult job to be honest). Anyway, he was batting. My brother was bowling. And I was fielding. My brother delivered a somewhat mediocre (by his standards) half volley that my grandfather timed well towards the cover region (somewhere in between first and second base for you illiterate types) smack into one of the sacred windows. The window cracked into several pieces. My brother and I collapsed with laughter. My grandfather started grinning sheepishly. The female oligarchy appeared, breathing fire and brimstone. Haha. Their fury was effectively rendered null and void when they learned who the culprit was. A few glares and some scoffing and they were done. You don't mess with the patriarch. Even if he has just broken a sacred window.

Looking back, my grandfather probably saved us from a fate worse than death. Sooner or later, my brother or I would have cracked a glass-breaking shot towards the weakened-by-years-of-abuse sacred window and the oligarchy would have had a field day feasting on our remains. So he had our backs yet again.

(I suppose, before something terrible happens to me, I should state for the record that the ladies in our family aren't really thaaat bad. They're pretty nice actually... very forgiving.)

So when I said my grandfather and I talked about George W., I wasn't kidding. My grandfather is not, to say the least, a fan of W. or his daddy. And neither, frankly, am I. But still, my grandfather is pretty extreme. (A good way to get him fired up is to tell him "Bush sends his love" or "Bush was asking when you're going to visit him" or something along those lines.) Part of his outlook is set this way, I think, because he's a traditional conservative Pakistani who's lived through the 50s and 60s when America kept promising us friendship but never delivered once it had what it wanted from us. Also, he's suspicious of the US's imperial ambitions in the Middle East and Asia (can you spell Iran?). But it's mostly because he's never met the Bushes and has no idea what wonderful people they actually are. (So, if you didn't realize that the last 19 words were COMPLETELY SARCASTIC, you are forbidden from reading my blog ever again. I don't care. I’ll take the hit in terms of readership. You are the weakest link. Good bye.)

Anyway, so when we used to play cricket with BUSHES around, and my grandfather was with us, and we'd hit the ball into the BUSHES, he'd occasionally mutter, "Good! Hit it into the BUSH. Hit the BUSH hard." Then he’d crack up. His inoffensive form of resistance to the American juggernaut. Now that I'm all grown up and realize that there's no such thing as spying and wire-tapping, I find his comments hilariously funny. At that time however, I was somewhat amused, but always secretly wondered if "they" were listening and were going to come kill us all at night. I was so naive back then, I had no idea that the United States was a fuzzy teddy bear that wouldn't hurt a fly.

One more thing and I'll let you go. My grandfather is so awesome; he let me drive a car when I was only 5 years old! OK fine, he worked the pedals and all I had was the steering. And it was an empty street. And I realized later that he actually had at least one hand on the steering wheel at all times. But still. He was the man when I was 5. And he is the man today.