Eulogy of my Grandfather

 What’s Popping my Dearest Dadu,

Oh, where can I even begin? All of the things I wanted to tell you, all of the feelings I wanted to feel, all of the memories I waited to etch into that log that ultimately drifted with the currents before I could even extend my arm out for it. I knew one day that this time would come, but how could I expect that day to be so soon? So incredibly, tragically soon.

When you passed away, it would be imprecise to say that the emotions came in waves. More so, they came in two parts: the sudden shock and onslaught of sadness at the instantaneous realization of what the word “dead” meant, and the slower, deeper and more excruciating depression that clung onto my soul and still hasn’t let go. And if you weren’t such a good grandfather, such a pure human being, and such a fun and lovable person who in every moment where the alchemist within me brewed up split feelings would without hesitation suck out the poison and put my life before his, that second part WOULD simply follow the redounding motion of one continuous wave of emotions that are gone at the next instance of time. Wow, what a long sentence. But then again, if you were here right now, you would tell me that it was fine, and that no matter what I wrote, you would love it and read it over and over again until I wrote something new.

You really were my biggest fan. From the first moment when I could remember the clicks and clacks of my miniscule little toes on the burgundy tiles connecting the bedrooms of the upper floor as I ran into your embrace, to your final days pleading with God Almighty to just. give. you. one. last. chance. All you wanted was to be with me. And I’m so, so sorry that I couldn’t make that wish a reality in the end.

I should have Facetimed you more often and talked to you for more time about what happened in school and with my friends and with Baba and Mamma. I should have tried harder to make you laugh, to see your stomach bob up and down and up and down from the giddiness that you felt from hearing me as I told you the corniest of jokes or the wildest of stories from the day. I should have tried harder to make you smile, to drive that energy through your rib cage and make your heart beat just a little bit faster, just a little bit longer for that limited time that I had with you, just until I could meet you in person and do so for all the time in the world.

I should’ve healed you goddammit, and I didn’t, and because of that you died. I was too little, too late, too far on the other side of the Earth, and no amount of fight that you had in the end could beat cancer. I should’ve said I love you one more time. I should’ve said goodbye. I shouldn’t have said goodbye, and instead said hello, and welcomed you and hugged you and told you that you were going to live, coerced you to live, so that in the end you would have. I’m confident about it. I should have traveled to Goa, all expenses covered graciously by you, and spent one of the last months that I would have ever seen you by your side instead of celebrating my birthday with my friends here in America.

But why lament, right? You had a good run, you did all that you could, and the past is in the past, so all that I can do right now is to keep your memories stored in my own personal backlog in good spirit and move on with my life while cherishing all that I can, right? But it ain’t that easy. Every breath that I take in the pool, I see your gentle expression beaming down upon me, your arms folded behind his back and compressed onto his forest-green woolen V-neck, your mouth shouting the words that I cannot hear but cognitively feel pushing me forward. “Go, Aryan, go!”

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As I complete a length in the pool underwater, and my lungs mesh with my heart to beat so loud that the whole world can hear them and my vision blurs and I feel like I simply have to take a breath, I remember Dadu. How he never gave up. How he knows that I can do it. How he would tell me that I could have done more, to push me to my very limits in the pursuit of greatness. And I keep on swimming, all the way until the other end. In just one breath.

In a way, Dadu is the very epitome of goodness. He doesn’t merely give before he takes. He just gives. Even if everybody does the wrong thing, if everybody stoops to lengths lower than than the deepest of valleys, and takes the shortest of strides to get to their destination, he won’t. He will pass through the treacherous peaks and mountains, endure through the biting cold and scorching heat, and make it to the end with half a body’s worth of broken bones, dust masking his face, and little shards of rubble wedged into his thighs, if it means that he will have made it there in the end ethically. In fact, Dadu had such an intuition for nobility and instilling it into his posterity, that I believe that if we lived in a world were virtues were flipped on their axis and he was raised from a background of corruptness, he still would naturally gravitate towards the light of righteousness and morale by the end of the day. Because that’s the person who he was. The person who fate had to target.

And he didn’t make it easy for fate either. He gave it one hell of a battle, gripping onto the horns of the Death’s pet bull as it penetrated his soul in a stare that almost no man has ever broken, riding for his dear life and refusing to fall off for his Aru baby. For me. And when he finally did concede to the inevitable claws of his cruel cancerous demise, he made sure to do so with his fists still swinging and nostrils flared. 

So I will conclude with this. And trust me, it won’t be the banal nonsense that you see in sappy reels as they copy some message from Wikipedia.

Ashok Kumar Sen was born on December 25th, 1946, and died on May 27th, 2024. When I left India in April 2017, he sobbed like he would never see me again, and gave me that same big hug that tightened around me like a boa constrictor. Except unlike if he was an actual boa constrictor, this was something that I reciprocated even tighter and never wanted to release. When I met Dadu for the last time in person, he looked at me like I was a newborn baby whom he had just laid eyes upon for the first time, intensifying just how cautious he felt he had to be around me as if I had a “fragile. Touch at your own risk” label strapped across my forehead in large red bold lettering. And then he gave me that same, long, telltale hug, a seat belt looped three times over that would protect me from all of the accidents and injustices and immaturities and malicious promises that the world had to offer, and I never wanted to let go. Once again, it was just me and my Dadu, and nothing else mattered. The world was a perfect world for his little Aru baby; he would be sure of it.

He would mandate it. He would tear down walls and repave roads just to make that little four year old boy who ran witlessly across the burgundy tile floor connecting the first and second bedroom of the upper floor so many many years ago crying “Daduuuuu” while jumping into his seemingly permanent embrace the happiest little boy in the world.

Dadu, if you can somehow telepathically see this message, know that I miss you. Know that no matter how hard I try here, words cannot put into effect how grateful I am for the positive influence that you have had on my life. Know that I think about you each and every day, and hold back tears wishing I didn’t need to, wishing I could shed them with you while my head slowly pressed against your firm shoulder and you softly croaked back “Aryan, don’t cry. Don’t cry Aryan”. I remember how in times like that I could share with you the weight of my world while you listened so patiently and enthusiastically and cared about each and every word coming out of my mouth, and I wouldn’t be judged for the things that I said.

Know that I still remember the countries and capitals that you taught me, that I can still hold my breath for the full underwater length of a pool, that I still trouble Mamma and Baba and Dida in the way that you would have wanted. That I still call Mamma Ramen and Baba Bob, and Dida the infamous word Fuzzy that we shared privately. Know that I still yearn to get back those intimate moments that we had together sitting on the sofa or walking around Woodbridge lake or playing Chess or Ludo on the wooden spruce table in our living room. Oh, how I plead for those moments to come back. Please Dadu, just give me one more lesson about the history of our world. Or one more board game before you go. I’ll try my very best to beat you, you know that I will. I promise Dadu.

Finally, know that I will live by your spirit, and put into effect for the rest of your life the values that you stood for. I will get into the college of our dreams, yours and mine alike. I will continue to put forth everything I got to excel academically. I will remember that it should have been “everything I have” and not “everything I got”, and conduct myself in the best possible way around others. Most of all, I will be a genuinely good human being, learning from the best of course, and emulate every positive trait that you ever exhibited for the rest of my life. I will help others, do what’s right, listen to Mamma and Baba and reluctantly even Dida, and give back in a way that makes only the best of your wise teachings. Trust me Dadu, I will not let you down. To that, I give you my word.

I love you Dadu. I miss you more than anything. And I just want to meet you one last time and give you that same enduring hug that we’ve shared oh so many times in the past. Please Dadu, just one final time and that’s all I ask. Will you do it for me? Please let me know. Thanks.

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So I guess that’s it. Goodbye, my dearest, dearest Dadu. I suppose I’ll meet you in Heaven now.

Sincerely,

Aryan Mukherjee