I was three and more of a kid who was anxious to know things. I was told I was never shy of talking to anyone. That was the first instance of conversation i had with my grandfather as a kid that I remember now. He came after the morning prayer from the mosque and appeared in front of me from the morning mist. A black framed specs, a woollen topi of black, black color kurta suit and a white pajama.He was elegance personified, I never saw him young, he was always that medium sized man with great energy. He told me loads of stories when ever I sat beside him on an eve.
As times passed and I grew the conversations with him too changed. He was never angry with me, probably because I was his only grandkid who met him only once in two years. And I always loved the fact that he gave me more attention than anyone. He was calm, composed, and pleasant. His life was very simple and had its own style and elegance.
He had built a school after his retirement from being a professor and a unani medical practitioner. The school was pretty small of all the schools I had seen in my life, but it's significance was the best among all the schools I had seen.
Built in a more under rated village of U.P where kids never went to the primary school, where the parents never felt the need to educate their kids, where the government itself didn't have a proper school, where more than three fourth of the people lived under the bpl, the english medium school was of great significance.
The pain he had in putting up the school, getting books and stationary for the kids who paid 75rs for their term,the transformation of a freedom fighter and a social activist in his early days to a social worker who worked for the well being of the uneducated sans retirement, I found a hero in my grandfather.I always wanted to help him once I would start earning, the last time we met in delhi he was still as energetic as any one in his mid forty would be,had loads of plans for the development of the school in kathiraon,the major one being accredition of cbse syllabus which still looked a distant dream.
We discussed,debated on many topics, anna hazare to satyam scam, Islamic socialism to its functionality and benefits to the democratic set up and there was no end to the conversation, till I left Delhi. He probably saw me get on to the taxi and stood near the gate till the taxi faded off from his sight, I never turned back to look at him for I knew I would see him with tears and I didn't want to carry his sad face in my memory.
Its exactly six months to our last meeting and iam back to Delhi, but this time, all I have here is his memories, his books, his writings, his dresses. Probably he has gone back to Banaras to his village "kathiraon",and would be at the head's chair in Minnat Jahan Razak modern academy where he normally sat on any working day. I know that is not true, but I like to keep it that way, I like to dream that he is still there and he would still ring me someday with his polite sound on the other side of the phone that would address me as "babu".
He lives in me and probably many more of those to whom he was a hero. I would never want to go back to "Kathiraon" and not see him there, standing at the door with his innocent smile. His legacy would continue.
T.R.K
As times passed and I grew the conversations with him too changed. He was never angry with me, probably because I was his only grandkid who met him only once in two years. And I always loved the fact that he gave me more attention than anyone. He was calm, composed, and pleasant. His life was very simple and had its own style and elegance.
He had built a school after his retirement from being a professor and a unani medical practitioner. The school was pretty small of all the schools I had seen in my life, but it's significance was the best among all the schools I had seen.
Built in a more under rated village of U.P where kids never went to the primary school, where the parents never felt the need to educate their kids, where the government itself didn't have a proper school, where more than three fourth of the people lived under the bpl, the english medium school was of great significance.
The pain he had in putting up the school, getting books and stationary for the kids who paid 75rs for their term,the transformation of a freedom fighter and a social activist in his early days to a social worker who worked for the well being of the uneducated sans retirement, I found a hero in my grandfather.I always wanted to help him once I would start earning, the last time we met in delhi he was still as energetic as any one in his mid forty would be,had loads of plans for the development of the school in kathiraon,the major one being accredition of cbse syllabus which still looked a distant dream.
We discussed,debated on many topics, anna hazare to satyam scam, Islamic socialism to its functionality and benefits to the democratic set up and there was no end to the conversation, till I left Delhi. He probably saw me get on to the taxi and stood near the gate till the taxi faded off from his sight, I never turned back to look at him for I knew I would see him with tears and I didn't want to carry his sad face in my memory.
Its exactly six months to our last meeting and iam back to Delhi, but this time, all I have here is his memories, his books, his writings, his dresses. Probably he has gone back to Banaras to his village "kathiraon",and would be at the head's chair in Minnat Jahan Razak modern academy where he normally sat on any working day. I know that is not true, but I like to keep it that way, I like to dream that he is still there and he would still ring me someday with his polite sound on the other side of the phone that would address me as "babu".
He lives in me and probably many more of those to whom he was a hero. I would never want to go back to "Kathiraon" and not see him there, standing at the door with his innocent smile. His legacy would continue.
T.R.K
