The Grandfather II: Memories of a Hero

My grandfather (who I had talked about in an earlier post) passed away yesterday. I've been thinking about him and the family a lot (more so than usual) for the past day or so and I figured I'd share with you another couple of stories/memories of him (and also of my grandmother, who is being very brave right now).

My brother and I (I was probably 12, he 7) were walking to the general store near our house one Saturday morning. Why we were going to the store together is beyond me... that was probably the last time we did anything together that didn't involve the lure of defeat and humiliation for the other. Anyway, the grandparents happened to drive by us on their way back home from a store of their own and, being our grandparents and all, decided to kidnap us. The brother and I were obviously helpless (and willing) victims. Imprisoned in the backseat of the old Mazda 929, we conveniently ignored the fact that our mother would be waiting on us to return with much needed groceries, until that is:

Grandmother: We'll call your parents once we get home
Us: OK
Grandmother: Your mother won't be waiting for you, will she?
Us: *silence*
Grandmother: Will she?
Me: Erm... well, she is expecting us back with groceries...

At which my grandmother, not wanting to incur the wrath of her daughter, instructed my grandfather to turn the car around and take us home.

Grandfather: It doesn't matter. We'll get to our place first.
Grandmother: No! Their mother is waiting.
Grandfather: Oh, let it be.

Clearly my grandfather, as usual, had his priorities straight.

Wrath of daughter = Small price to pay for time with grandchildren.

What transpired next was nothing short of shocking. The grandmother, with another "No!" leaned over and yanked the steering wheel to one side in an attempt to make the grandfather return us to our owners. The car veered towards the gravel median. The brother and I watched excitedly as the parents of our mother struggled manfully and womanfully against each other. Somehow, in the midst of the threats and the yelling, the car returned shakily to the center of the road. Huzzah! We were saved! Unfortunately, the matriarch's attack resulted in victory in the psychological battle... the grandfather glared and reversed course... we ended up back home... without groceries to boot... and with some explaining and storytelling to do.

Next story. My grandparents had had some trouble with a neighbor, and one of the other neighbors had helped in sorting the matter out. We had the gentleman (the one who helped, not the one who created the problem duh) over to tea (or was it lunch, I don't remember... I was about 17 though, if that helps). We (grandparents, parents, uncle, aunt, cousins) were sitting in the drawing room being all grateful and entertaining. My grandmother was going on about the callousness and wickedness of some people (quite rightfully too, I might add). She turned to our guest and, almost accusingly, said, "They had no regard. My husband is a heart patient."

At this second, I caught the heart patient's eye. For some reason, he grinned his infectious grin at me. And I couldn't help but grin back. So here we have my grandmother going on in a deadly serious vein about heart patients and bad people and I have all my teeth showing. My uncle happened to catch this out of the corner of his eye. Loudly, he said, "Why are you smiling? Leave the room right now." I almost pointed at the grandfather and said, 'He started it!" but that would have been inappropriate. So I left. Trust the grandfather to start grinning when his heart condition was being discussed... and trust him to get away with it at someone else’s expense. *sigh*

I used to have a couple of toy guns (1 or 2) when I was small (5 or 6). One of them was a huge plastic Kalashnikov, almost as big as I was. Whenever the grandfather saw the weapon in my hands, he would feign terror. You know, eyebrows up, eyes wide, hands shaking and waving in typical "don't hurt me" fashion. My six year old self thought this was hilarious, so I'd display my arms threateningly at every opportunity. He never failed to disappoint with his trembling and occasional whimpering. I outgrew the guns (thank God) but the memory of the grandfather's fake terror never fails to bring a smile to my face. It's funny that even stories involving guns and terror (albeit both fake) go only to show what a kind, caring and family oriented man he was.

We may not be seeing him for some time now, but the joys and memories... and mishaps we shared will always keep him near. If, one day, my grandchildren feel about me the way I feel about my grandfather, Mansoor Karamat Ahmad, I'll know I've done well.