This is for Grand-father :

I am a 'gifted' man good at almost everything that I do. Be it sports, oratory, cooking, sketching, decision, academics, looks, or even something as small as scribbling a little " D-A-M-N Y-O-U ! " on a piece of paper, I always do things with a touch of perfection. Excellence is a drug, and I am a demanding patient. But to state the plain old truth, the trait is hereditary. I can recall almost no one in my family-line who does not have the genes. My short time among the peoples of this planet compels me to believe that it all must have started with my grandfather.

From whatever little I remember of my early childhood, a few particular memories have made home in my mind, staying there as faint - yet powerful - impressions of a cherished time.

Though an Indian by birth, I spent my first few years with my grand-parents in Sweden. Being the first grandson, even until now I remain to be the most loved and pampered kid of the house. It was never any different earlier. And though I cannot hope to recall much of that time, I have vague memories of the days when I had grown enough brains to tell a bath-towel from toilet-paper.

My grand-father was almost sixty and my grand-mother fifty-five when I was nearing five. It was always the three of us in the villa, and a train of dumb, noiseless servants. While Granny was the 'Lady' of the house, Grand-father was the one who fascinated little Anant.

Tall, handsome, quick, fit, intelligent, smart, imposing, serious, calm, economic in his words, and so full of love when it came to me - he was everything a grandson of the Tripathis could ever gaze in awe at and never mind losing his footing. His stance would never betray the slightest of hesitation. His eyes would never wander aimlessly when he talked to you, but hold you fixed in your shoes. His lips would move ever so slightly when he chose to talk and his voice would always be rich when he did. He would always give you that intelligent, knowing look when you did something stupid, but would then smile at you with such pure affection that you could but melt in the warmth of his love. He would lift you in his arms whenever you did something pleasing, no matter if you were thirty pounds or fifty. He would bowl to you in the park, get you the day's first ice-cream, kiss your cheek every-time you recited him a poem and never fall short of interesting bed-time stories. He was a grand-father like every other caring grand-father; and yet there was something about him, something in the aura around him, the air of confident, perfect smugness, that made him different. He was the original whole of what parts we Tripathis carry with us today.

He used to go to a local Hindu temple every morning and always took me along with him. It was like a daily pilgrimage. We would do our private business early in the morning and then go out for a nice, long stroll to the temple. Grandpa would spend almost an hour reciting hymns and prayers at the holy place while I would fiddle around, play with the local Indian children or simply sit beside him and listen to his timeless, heart-felt prayers. He was learned; he was efficient; he was intelligent. And he was pious.

He was a rich man. With all the gathered wealth from his successful employment with the Indian Government, and that from his personal assets, he was one who could retire eight years earlier than the probable age and provide his grandson with all the comforts of the world.

I never saw Mother and Father until I turned six. My uncle had secretly smuggled me away eight days after my birth. Mom never got to know until he called. It was from the airport that he had called her. He said he had known Mother won't let me go with him - when I had just been born! He said he wanted to take me. I told you : I am a pampered kid. I mean - who, in all-the-seven-hells, steals a child from his own brother just because he thought he loved the child too much? That is madness; yes, I agree. But we are Tripathis, you know. There are many kinds of 'extremes'.

I grew-up in the following years with my younger sister - I had never seen her before I came back home - in India, at my parents' place. Meanwhile, my grand-parents also shifted to India. I visited them every Mid-summer and at all the festivals. Those were times I could never miss. Grandpa was always the major attraction with all his tenderness, his care, his love and his balance. He could walk for long hours without stopping, recite chants and prayers all through the poojas and keep himself clean and handsome as before even when he had entered his seventies. He would never bend, never ask for the littlest of help. He was the epitome of perfection, of self-esteem, of pride, and of a satisfaction so palpable that I will forever remain in awe of that man. He was The Tripathi. And that made him no lesser fun.

It was when I entered my thirteenth year that things with him took a 'U'-turn.

He had this sudden attack of Parkinson's while he was in his Study. Fortunately, Grand-mother decided to visit his room a few minutes after that. He had fallen from his arm-chair, probably trying to rise, and had gone unconscious. They had rushed him to the nearest Hospital.

Nobody told me. I remember being taken home hastily from school in mid-class on unknown pretext. They told me we were going to visit Grandpa. I had been too excited to ask further. And Mother had known better than trying to elaborate.

But I had known when I saw the Hospital. It was an...an uneasy feeling, one I cannot begin to describe. This was not a place for a Tripathi, I had thought. Not a fit, healthy and loving Tripathi, no!

I could never have even guessed anything, had I not seen him. At first, I thought it must be some accident and still remember the creepy sensation that had gripped me with the dawning of the notion. But I more clearly remember the shivering I could not ward off when I had finally seen his state.

He had been lying in the 'general ward'. Unconscious, pale, gaunt and so...so...diminished in form. He looked like a ghost of the man that he was, that he would have been just two days ago. I remember how helpless I had felt. Believe me, if there is anything a Tripathi can never accept, it is helplessness. I could not move, I could not take my eyes off him. I could not stop wondering how this strong, imperious and adorable old man could crumple so easily before something so mundane as illness. I could not but sit there beside him all night and cry. He was my father. He was everything. He was little Anant's dream. He was The Tripathi.

We Tripathis are strong at heart. We have that eye for detail. We have that perfectionism forged into us. Genes, some might say. I know it is what you see, what you learn. What leads you. It is principles, it is family. For me, it was Grandfather. And he is still and always will remain to be the Guiding Angel. He is The Tripathi.

He is seventy-seven now. He has severe Parkinson's, several mental-impairments, diabetes, rheumatism and another fifty problems, one-and-all related directly or indirectly to his mental state. Doctors say it could have been some childhood-injury, something hereditary or may be simple stress. But I know it's not the latter. I can still nearly feel that air of satisfaction about him.

His hands shiver terribly at times, he soils his clothes as often as not, his voice shakes when he prays, and his calculations have gone slow. Occasionally, he talks of things he himself cannot recall later. Sometimes his words have no sense at all. He would sometimes be found lying unconscious somewhere in the house, his clothing soiled and his form still. But still he tries. He would not appreciate it if you lent a hand without his asking. His voice shakes, his throat dries, but still he speaks about your health, your studies, and how charming you look in a particular dress. He still has that intelligence in his eyes, and at times, I can even find echoes of his rich words in his tome. He still looks you in the eye when he tells you something. He still kisses your cheek when you do something pleasing. He still has that self-respect about him that makes him stand out even if his legs gave way under him. He is still the man I can look at and say - Yes, he's the man I call my father; he's the man I idealize, the one I truly respect ! He is still The Tripathi that inspires me.

And I know that whatever the circumstances be, however strong the pull of Fate, Grandfather will always fight. He is the fountain. He is where we Tripathis actually begin. He is the Time I can look back at and believe in the sheer power of Persona and Satisfied-Success. He is The Tripathi. And helplessness, dear reader, was NEVER a Tripathi trait. And as I said...it was with Him that things began.

Yours lovingly,

Anant Tripathi.