Ego: October 2004 Archives

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.