For you, Grandpa.

You taught me how to draw. I remember sitting by your feet near the bed, a look of awe and wonder on my young face as you sketched a puppy with a charcoal pencil. I would marvel how you could draw everything under the sun from your imagination, without needing to look at a drawing or picture for the initial sketch. I remember those exquisite paintings you left behind, done in water colours, all red and blue and pale lilacs and greens. I remember fighting with mother about who would inherit those works of art --- a young me, or her. I remember us striking a deal --- that the paintings would stay in my home in Kanpur until I had my own house, and then I’d take some with me after I’d settled down with my family.

I miss you. I miss the cranky you. Maybe now when I have grown up, I can understand why you stayed grumpy most of the time. It was age. And the numerous physical ailments that brought you down. I never told you I loved you. Because I didn’t really know then what the expression meant. If you were alive today, I’d look up to you everyday and thank you for making me who I am, for passing on those fantastic artistic genes, blessed with which I can at least sketch coherently and ensure a circle remains a circle.

You passed away on this day, 13 years ago. I came back from a birthday party with my cousins to find out you had left us forever. While I was enjoying myself with balloons and cakes, probably playing a game of musical chairs or Blindman’s Buff, you were silently saying your final words, making the final wish, closing your eyes one last time and leaving those memories behind. Painful and happy, cherished until today. It’s 13 long years now, Dadu. I might not remember you everyday. But you remain an artistic part of my life.

Happy independence day grandfather! I know you are somewhere, watching over me. And maybe even a wee bit proud that your granddaughter can sketch a puppy, all curled up in its sleep, with a bushy tail and black nose, just the way you taught her to.