Butterflies and Hurricanes

He would have planned ahead. Like he always did. He would have retrieved his hardbound notebook and made a guest list first. His ball pen leaving tiny blobs of ink on the paper as he wrote. Baba was all about plans and schedules. Obviously, there would have been a time-table for everyone to follow. He would have prepared a meticulous menu with every food item clearly spelled out. He would have probably added puri sabzi for the main dish, with pulav, salad and raita on the side. The meals may have been heavy, but they had to be balanced. For the sweet dish, he would have sat at the dining table – shirtless in the summer heat – and made fruit cream. The sun rays would have tangled up in the gulmohar tree outside and streamed in through the windows in droves. He would have patiently peeled and chopped mangoes, apples and grapes, getting them ready to be dunked in fresh cream.

He would have carefully shaved his coarse white beard with his metallic razor and would have combed the thin strip of hair at the back of his head. He would have worn a crisp off-white kurta-pajama and his ‘outside’ shoes that would have been waiting for him in his wooden shoe rack. With a white hanky placed in his pocket, his silver watch on his wrist, and his walking stick tightly clasped, (and his dependable torch for good measure) he would have been ready. Then he would have gone downstairs, and waited for his guests. He would have greeted them with his hands pressed together, and then joked with them about being old. He would have cracked the same inappropriate jokes with all our Dadis and would have joyfully boasted about the lavish life he had led, and what all his children and grandchildren were up to. Everyone would have been compelled to eat on time, and he would have insisted they take second helpings. He would have asked my father to get rasgulla or rasmalai from the sweet shop in case we ran out of fruit cream. One couldn’t be too careful.

With the house bubbling with conversations, he would have asked for everybody’s attention. He would have taken out a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read out a perfectly worded speech. Like the thousands of speeches he had written for his students, for his relatives, for his children, for us. He would have thanked everybody for showing up. He would have expressed his gratitude for the rich and colourful life he had led, for the abundance of experiences both good and bad. But mostly good. From family gatherings to playing Bridge with his friends. From playing poker on Diwali to travelling with his wife and kids. From sharing endless mangoes with his grandchildren to discussing politics and religion with his peers. From enjoying a quiet afternoon nap out in the sun to the joy of sitting next to an angeethi on a winter night. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have gone into the details. He wouldn’t have spelled it all out. He wouldn’t have become emotional. He liked to keep everything precise – including his phone calls that never lasted for more than two minutes. He would have told everyone not to mourn. He would have told them all to celebrate this occasion. He would have asked them to think about his life and if possible, draw inspiration from it. “Humein dekho,” he would have said. “Hum kitne thaath se rahe. Aur dekho, hum ja rahe hain, to wo bhi kitne thaath se.” (Look at me, I lived with such grandeur. And I’m leaving the same way.)

He would have then smiled, had his fair share of rasmalai, said his goodbyes with his hands pressed and his head slightly bowed out of respect. At the end of it all, he would have opened the gate and then locked it, before finally turning to see if it was clasped properly. He would have turned around and asked us to go back inside and make sure the lights and the fans were switched off and that no food was being wasted. And then, slowly, he would have walked into oblivion, his walking stick, his silver watch, his hanky, and his torch still on his person.

My grandfather would have made sure the day was perfect. Just like he liked it. As for all of us, we would have just shaken our heads with awe and amusement. Rest well, Baba. So long, and thank you for everything.