The ‘Interest’

It was the ‘haldi’ ceremony of Anupam. I wore a yellow dhoti and a kurta with a shawl draped over my left shoulder. Rani and I sat next to the priest. The priest was young. An MA in Sanskrit, he had resigned as lecturer in a college to don the role of a priest. His children did not like the small town where he lived during his stint as a lecturer. The low salary was another turn off, he said.

Talkative, the priest explained why certain things were performed during the puja, and also clarified the correct manner of doing them to gain desired results. A pleasant person, the priest cracked harmless jokes at appropriate moments.

An important ritual in the ceremony involved recalling dead relatives. The priest explained the process, and then said something funny. He said, “Man is more interested in his grandchildren, than in his own children. His own children are the principal amount, while the grandchildren are the interest accrued! The lender is always interested more in the interest than in the principal amount.”

The simile sounded absurd to me. I smiled, but rejected it almost instantaneously. My paternal grandfather met me only on two or three occasions, that too for very brief periods of time, and never displayed affection. He never took me around, played with me, or even talked to me beyond the one-liner, “Do you recognise me?”

My maternal grandfather saw me a little more, but he, too, was more interested in my younger cousins and my elder sister. Perhaps we never talked, though I remember touching his feet and he saying “thak, thak” every time we visited Nanaji’s place.

Daddy, that way, was better. I was aware of some correspondence between him and Anupam. Anupam met him last about eight years ago. Daddy enquired about Anupam whenever we spoke over the telephone. However, he forthrightly rejected the idea of attending Anupam’s wedding, citing his poor health! About 80 years of age, he suffers from arthritis. Walking on uneven ground causes pain to him. His knees hurt. He is content lying down on a sofa and watching television most of the time. When he stands, his back bends within seconds. He has partial vision in one eye. And, he appears to be hard of hearing. He lives thousands of kilometres away from all his children, in a house that my mother and he built together in a suburb of Patna. Mummy stayed in that house only on the ‘grihapravesha’ night. Her premature death (read blog 'Strange but True'), daddy’s premature retirement, and his movement to his own house were over in a matter of about two years. Daddy lives there away from his real children, running his mission of transforming the lives of the underprivileged. He appears to be content meeting their requirements, and has so far refused all invitations to live with us.

Rani’s father, Papa, is no more. I do not remember any exchange of affection between him and my son. Papa’s communication with Anupam revolved around securing the main gate at night, shutting down the water pump, operating the valve on the water pipe, and bringing something from the market. If the two of them ever laughed together, I missed that totally.

So, all that proclamation about grandchildren being more sought after than own children was nothing but humbug for me.

A day after the wedding we travelled to daddy’s place to seek his blessings. The train started late by about ten hours, and by the time it reached the destination it was about twelve hours behind schedule. Rather than arriving at dawn, we stood in front of the house in the evening! Daddy and the children had gathered together to welcome the new bride. A colourful ‘alpana’ greeted us at the main entrance. The children performed her ‘aarti’, gave her some sweet to eat, and entered the house behind her. The drawing room was decorated with shiny papers, flowers, and a small poster congratulating Nitasha and Anupam.

Refreshments were promptly served in brand new crockery under the supervision of Daddy. I ignored the gulab jamun, which had sugar stuck over it. The dahiwada was better. So were four or five other delicacies. I was tired, and also a little uncomfortable wondering how the city-dwelling Nitasha would appreciate such rustic fare. Daddy kept on asking whether we liked the food, and I kept nodding my head in mock approval. Frankly, there was nothing extraordinary about it. I am a little apprehensive about food bought from shops, especially if they happen to be located in backward suburbs.

Finally, one of the children broke the news. Daddy had cooked the gulab jamun, the dahiwada, and most of the other delicacies himself! Since he cannot stand for more than a few minutes, he had got the stove placed on the floor, and cooked the food for hours. It was he who had made the poster. Sheepishly, daddy added that he had also stitched new sofa covers for the occasion.

I was shocked! The entire scenario changed. The sofa cover, the decoration, the poster, the food – everything stood transformed! I saw Daddy in a new light. He did not betray any sign of suffering due to sitting for hours cooking, drawing the poster, or stitching the covers. He was happy, eager to know whether we were happy.

My eyes clouded with tears. I thought of the priest’s statement about the bond between grandparents and grandchildren, and took a gulab jamun. It was well made, so what if it had sugar stuck over it!