Results tagged “family” from Test blog

It is a curious mixture of emotions that has been doing the rounds of my head this evening; despite the concerns I've expressed previously, I have again been able, tonight, to sit down to another meal in the company of my dear grandfather, discussing the current state of things, politically minded as he is, as well as, inevitably, how things used to be.

Every time we speak, I think about recording all the things we share -- his memories of the wars and hostile occupation, the quirky stories and simple, inspiring recounts of our family's past, all the things that he enjoys recounting tirelessly, and which don't even begin to bore me -- but I don't; it just doesn't seem appropriate.

Part of me wants to hold on to it all permanently, and part of me just wants to remember, and though for many years my mother and I have both thought about writing some of it down, it's not something we've ever come to do. I don't think we'll get the chance; he'll be returning to Pakistan shortly, and will soon be too frail to travel. I'll be saying goodbye to him tomorrow, and I've been told it may well be the last time I ever see him, though I know well enough to keep my faith in the present.

Tonight he gave me a catalogue, dated 1935, of the teak and mahogany furniture produced by the family woodmill in Rangoon during the decades that preceded the invasion of Burma. Though bound in leather and of doubtless quality for its day, its neglected pages are yellowed and moth eaten, crumbling in places, the binding failing. And on the back page are three dignified silver prints; my grandfather, Ahmed, as he was in his teenage years, his older brother, Yacob, and in the centre, looking every inch the grand patriarch, my great grandfather, Binyamin. I'm not sure what it was that I felt, but when I came up here to my room, the only thing I wanted to do was lie down, bury my face in my pillow, and cry.

Times change; people die; memories fade; all we are left with is history.

I kneeled by his wheelchair, holding his hand, wearing a smile, and I chuckled as I looked at him; born in 1918. Nineteen bloody eighteen. What in god's name am I next to this? He looks my way and all I can come up with in the moment is "You must be so proud." Eight kids, all now grown and given rise to the nineteen that I know of as my maternal cousins. They, in turn, have already begun, here and there, to do that whole baby-making thing; my family is a giant snowball in the rolling, and this man, along with my grandmother, set it on its way.

He smiled, and dismissively flicked his hand and rolled his head in that idiosyncratic south-Asian way that says neither yes, nor no, and by-golly I enjoyed being asked all the same. As with the Queen Mother, his age has long mellowed a once rather harsh and highly opinionated character into something entirely amiable, and that is how I've always known him, but whereas he was, only a short time ago, very active and pretty boisterous too, he is now quiet, frail and more dependent upon his family than he ever was; he's still strong, I see this, but the nature of his vitality is changed - he was hit by a fast moving car as he left the mosque in Karachi a few months back, and surprisingly, he lived.

When I heard the news, I felt my concern physically, down in my stomach, but he was okay and I let it go. When, some weeks later, I found in my room some pictures of him in hospital, battered, swollen, but smiling, I burst into quiet tears for my poor grandfather, the stubborn, lonely and proud fool who insisted on living alone, back home in Pakistan away from us all. And I loved him all the more for being such a goat, because I knew that I'd be just the same were I to live to such an august age.

So today, I put him on a plane bound for Los Angeles, not knowing whether I'll see him again or not; I expect to, as is our nature to do, but rue the fact that I haven't any control over what will and what won't.

Being conveniently placed at the airport and having said my goodbyes, I was able to wander over to arrivals, where I met my friend, Robin, on his arrival from the US, as well as his hosts-to-be during his stay in the UK. My hello turned into a rather wonderful afternoon with the three of them, out in the sunshine, with good food, drink and conversation, and a dreamy musical set which I clearly know too little about to go into. On parting company, I ended up walking down the Euston Road in a most fantastic downpour, dried out on the cruiser back into Cambridge, and was promptly kidnapped on arrival for desserts and drinks on the outdoor terrace of the local Café Rouge.

I like being kidnapped, when it's voluntary, and particularly where it involves warm apple tart and chocolate ice cream. I also like good company, and meeting new people, and taking it easy when everything else seems such a stress. I even like going to bed exhausted. Blogging when exhausted? Bleh - you can bloody well check my grammar for me.