The Person I Call Dada

Edited by Sreya Sayeed

If I am not mistaken, for the first 6-7 years of my life I lived with my grandfather. He was both a grandfather and grandmother to me as my grandmother was always bedridden and honestly I never got along very well with her. He would drop me to classes in his car, take care of me while my parents were at work and keep trying new dishes with my elder sister. I remember how I truly cherished the stories of Mahabharata that he used to tell me. Though my mother often bought me Amar ChitraKatha  comic books, the captivating manner of my grandfather’s disclosure of these stories thrilled me the most. The best part was that he told me the stories in Hindi which made them sound more real and connected me to our culture millions of years ago, many aspects of which I still see in my day to day life.

Later, due to lack of space, my grandparents shifted to a building close by which I would visit regularly. We would be dropped off there during holidays; often it would be to study Hindi with my grandfather though we would always end up playing and enjoying with him rather than doing a word of language or prose. It was something in the atmosphere of his house that gave me a sense of freedom. When I look back now, this might be since my parents were always strict about what we ate while my grandfather was always pampering us and letting us have what we like. It was during one of these days at my grandfather’s place that I realized that my grandfather was an author. I knew that he gave lectures at the university for which he took no money but I never knew that he had also written so many books.

Once he was telling me a story from a book Pariyon Ki Kahani (which were fictional stories about fairies), when I realized that he wasn’t reading from the book. That’s when my sister said to me, “Sangh, don’t you know that Dada has written this book?”. My sister was seemingly was closer to my grandfather as she had spent two years alone with him. However, though I was not always outwardly expressive about it, I too had a deep bond with my grandfather and loved him dearly. He always asked me “Chota baby kya karta?” asking me what I was doing, to which I would never reply and shy away.

Soon I started realizing why he was well known in the Hindi literary world. He had written all sorts of books from fictional tales for children to science fiction novels, non-fiction and many other genres. I had read his short stories for children and they were marvellous with complicated plots and twisted end, always keeping me on my toes. I discovered piles of books written by him in his apartment and every time I visited I found some or the other new book to look at.

Though in awe of his writing, I was never very comfortable with reading Hindi novels. In a few years’ time my attention shifted to English Literature. At the school library, I first started reading A-Zmysteries, which were picture books for children followed by Famous Five Series, Secret Seven Series, Nancy Drew, and many others.

Recently, I told him how I want to take up an English Major and am considering becoming a professor in the future. He told me it was a good idea as if I become a writer because there would be better prospects for me as English novels made much more money than Hindi ones. I was bewildered at this assertion and asked him why he wasn’t paid enough. He then explained that there wasn’t a huge market for Hindi novels and books and the world around us prefers English stories; his stories, though famous, are popular only among certain groups.

My grandfather was a creator. He wrote books using his knowledge of science, law and arts (he has a bunch of degrees) and wrote tales which are hard to emulate. However, he still didn’t have a large income or the recognition? he deserved. I think that is the deal with art. Often overshadowed by global English novels, Hindi literature doesn’t get a chance. You call it the impact of Post-colonialism or any other thing, the truth remains that art may not always be appreciated. A dozen stories lie hidden in this world. 

Though always modest about it, my grandfather was a master of writing. Thousands of people write about their lives but very few can write a good fiction book. You do not find a J.K Rowling or Agatha Christie everywhere. The art of creating a world of fantasy which sweeps people off their feet is something that cannot be out competed.

My father may be more financially well off but what my grandfather has is a lifetime of wealth.