By Aarti Lila Ram

I find myself enveloped in the raw grip of grief. When I was young, my nana baba possessed a magical ability that left an indelible mark on my heart. He could weave tales with such vivid expressions and animated fervor that even the most mundane stories came alive in his presence. To me, he was nothing but magic. And he was. The enchantment of my childhood resides within the walls of my grandparents’ home in Hyderabad, where their love imbued every corner with warmth. Nana baba’s house was always snug, perhaps even a little too warm at times. The constant tick-tock of the clock in his drawing room filled the air with a comforting rhythm, and the smell of books in his library, collected and put together with years of struggles and hardships, added to the rich tapestry of my cherished memories.

Nana baba was the reason I fell in love with reading. He was the first to encourage me to keep a diary and put my thoughts on paper. At the tender age of 10, I picked up a pen because he believed that I had something important to say. Even now, at the age of 28, I struggle with self-esteem issues when it comes to my writing. But I recall his unwavering belief in me, his voice echoing with the same boldness I hear within myself today. He insisted that I had much more to say, urging me to find my voice. During my summer vacations, I eagerly anticipated my visits to his home. There, I would venture into his library, and we would choose books together. Each time, we would select several classic literature books, and as soon as I returned home, I would be granted the opportunity to choose even more. I read and read, yet the ritual remained the same over the years, an unending source of satisfaction.

With time, I yearned for it even more. I remember him teaching me the initial alphabets of Hindi and Sanskrit so I could aspire to read literature in more languages. He firmly believed that knowledge resided within every language and culture, each with its own unique beauty and richness. Our summer days were marked by cold baths on the terrace, our morning jogs at Wapda Park, and shared evening snacks, his eyes fixated on the monthaal that Nani Amma would make for me. His diabetes restrained his fondness for sweets, but he would still savor small bites I would sneak to him.

When people tell me that my style of writing resembles his, I swell with pride. I aspire to become more like him as I age, to embody his strength, resilience, boldness, and warmth. I aim to be as fierce and loving as he was, not only for his family but for everyone he touched. I have been blessed with remarkable role models in my family, and he was one of them. He showed me that there are countless ways to be a good person, each capable of contradicting the other.

I will carry him with me always, especially when I come across a particularly beautiful neem tree, freshly picked motia, or a blooming bougainvillea outside the house. His legacy lives on through the classic literature he introduced me to and in the raindrops that grace the soil. A connection with a grandparent is a rare and irreplaceable bond. He may never have known who I would grow to be in the years to come, but my childhood and early adulthood is cemented in his wisdom and age.

Loved by all who crossed his path, he made significant contributions to the community and the world of Sindhi literature. He had a remarkable ability to captivate listeners with his storytelling over a cup of tea, imparting knowledge and wisdom from the world of literature to both young and old. So why has he left us? Why has someone so full of life, kindness, and generosity departed? Nothing makes sense anymore, and I find myself caught in a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions. It has left me both anguished and desolate, knowing that I will no longer hear his laughter or select books together.

During his last days, it felt like he left us long before his heart ceased to beat. He endured immense pain and lost so much of himself that he became unrecognizable in more ways than one. His world, once vast and infinite, had shrunk to a mere fraction of its former self. We grieved for him long before his physical departure, as his suffering was unbearable. Still, in those final breaths and heartbeats, my world came to a standstill, and it has barely moved since.

I never had the chance to witness his eyes light up or hear his laughter as he called for me, affectionately “Aartaa” from his bedroom. This remains one of my deepest regrets, for it meant I never had the chance to say a “proper goodbye,” whatever that may mean.

Family members remind me that death is inherently painful, messy, and unfair, and that the memories of him in his true self are the ones that truly matter. When he passed, I experienced a complex mix of guilt and relief. I am grateful that he is no longer in pain and that the endless uncertainty has finally come to an end. The depth of my loss and emotional pain is immeasurable. I ache for him and the unconditional love we shared. Nana baba was my greatest supporter and fan, always believing in me and my abilities and listening to my endless stories. He was someone who cherished life, reveled in the company of others, and breathed the very air of literature.

The truth is, no one prepares you for that final embrace, touch, or word from your grandparent.

As I mourn, I find solace in the fact that I am not alone. Countless people share in my grief – our family, relatives, his scholarly friends, even those who may not have known him personally but were touched by his writing, poetry, and translations. They all recognize the profound loss we now bear, not just in the literary world but on a deeply personal level. To them, he may have been all those things they extol him for, but to me, he will always be my nana baba.