What are the ingredients of my curry?

This particular blog entry has been on my mind for the past couple of days, compelling me to write for reasons unbeknownst to me – so here I am. I have lately been practicing the art of meditation as I hold a very strong belief that it will have progress my physical (and spiritual) well being. In the course of my practice I have felt a very strong, surreal connection to my parental grandfather, dada, who passed away a little over 2 and half years ago. I’m not sure why, but it has just happened. This is a humble attempt for me to sow the seed of my thoughts to a fully germinated blog entry.

I did not cry when dada passed away. Maybe part of me thought that he did not really pass on, that he went on another vacation or trip, and that he will be back soon - so I did not accept it. Because I did not know where exactly did he go after he died?

It still seems like yesterday when I was 4-5 years and he would wake me in the middle of my sleep (much to the annoyance of my mother who painstakingly put me to sleep!) to show me the brilliance of the moon. That would my and dada’s special time together. He would wake up and go to work before me and would come home long past my “first” bed time. And as sleepy and cranky as I was, I had an inkling that it was a special moment and I should pay attention. Those were the times he told me stories about mythical Indian princes, princesses, gods and the crocodile. Yes, every other story from dada had a crocodile in it. It amazed me that when his sense of imagination took flight, it would always be anchored in a crocodile. I think he did it for my benefit sometimes because I once visited a crocodile farm and was fascinated by the creature. It was his way of telling me that no matter what the story or the morale, there was always wiggle room for a bit of imagination, humor and fun. I used to wait for the grand entrance of the crocodile in all his stories!

In dada’s final years as his health took a turn for the worst, dada was frenzied about dividing his assets amongst his children and grandchildren. Dada was a practical man, and just as he did in his load-bearing years he believed that after him no account should be left unsettled or book unbalanced. I would always wonder – What would dada give me? A diamond ring? His coveted prayer books? His size 10 slippers? *lol* What would I inherit from my dada? It took me 2 years to realize what I did inherit from my grandfather.

Other than my bony hands and feet (double-jointed with amazing dexterity!) and a forehead the size of Maharashtra, I inherited dada’s spirit. I realized now how many similarities him and I have that have nudged us along similar paths. He too embarked for Singapore all by himself in his teenage years, starry eyed, in hopes of earning money to send back to his family. He bravely faced a new culture, language and work ethic to survive. I inherited his resilience to live apart for his family and make the best of his situation.

I too have his uncanny sense of direction. This is a famous story in my family – when I was barely 6, dada and I went on one eventful Sunday to the temple. Somehow, we were separated from each other and I (being a smart cookie) went back to the entrance of the temple to sit by his size 10 Indian slippers (dada’s trademark). As you can imagine, waiting is very hard for a child and even mere minutes seem like hours. So this is what I did. I put on my own slippers and walked home (2-3kms away) all by myself. My mother was HORRIFIED when she saw me all alone. She asked me where dada was and I said “He got lost!” in Sindhi. It never occurred to me that I was the one who was lost! This is another thing I inherited from my dada – fearlessness. I don’t remember the last time I was afraid.

So, I’ve been teary eyes lately, grateful for all these gifts bestowed upon me by my grandfather throughout my life. A friend told me “If you are thinking about your grandfather so much then why don’t you visit his grave or his urn with flowers?” The thing about Hindu last rites is that there is no evidence of the physical body once the person has moved on. A Hindu body is cremated and the ashes are sprinkled in the river which is considered sacred and holy to our culture. Where could I go? This is where my meditation practice has come in. Over the last couple of days I have realized that where my dada lives now is with me. He is in me in everything I do, say, experience. I may wear size 9 slippers, but I still dream of princes, princesses, gods and the crocodiles. I have lived and survived in my new home; my new country Canada, with the same fearlessness displayed by my dada when he came to Singapore to make it his home. Adapting to the Canadian winters, accents, sushi with Shiraz – my resilience comes genetically in my DNA from dada. My keen sense of adventure at exploring new countries, be it Hawaii, Mexico, Hong Kong, Thailand armed with just a map or a GPS – now I know where I got that from.

So this blog is my ode, my tribute to my dada. Whether his soul resides in the moon that captured both his heart and mine, in the sacred river where his ashes are or at KFC (where he and I both loved eating mashed potatoes with gravy), I wanted to say: Dada, thank you for the journey and the special moments we had to steal to be together. Thank you for the beautiful inheritance you have entrusted upon me. And thank you for showing me that one can still live on after one has passed.

And also dada, thank you for sparing me size 10 shoes. Size 9 are big enough! :)

p.s. Long live the crocodile!