My Story

My most vivid and earliest memory of Dada is coming home from school, aged five, to a plate full of perfectly circular pieces of rotali, topped with cubes of Alphonso mango for lunch. Dada would prepare them before I came home from school, and then patiently chase me around the house as I wilfully refused to eat my lunch in one sitting.

I was very young when Dada’s vision and hearing started to decline; I didn’t have much time to get to know the doting, adventurous man that he was before the roles were reversed, and it was our turn to look after him as he aged. Nevertheless, I was told a lot more stories about the things he did for us by Papa, our relatives and friends, that made me wish I had more time to do so – things like taking us on daily walks to the Hanging Gardens, telling us all sorts of stories from Hindu mythology, and taking our side when Mummy and Papa scolded us, amongst many others!

It wasn’t just to us that he gave his time so passionately. I remember visually impaired students coming over to our house in Bombay, where Dada would read to. I recall playing with Braille paraphernalia lying around our house as a kid. Dada would not only read to them, but also helped record textbooks on cassettes too!

I heard stories about how even on high and remote of places in the Himalayas, Dada would find a way to make tea and Shrikhand. How he and ba  would scrimp and save for most of the year to be able to afford the annual treks to the Himalayas. How his love for adventure and nature influenced so many people beyond the five of us – cousins, uncles, aunts, friends, colleagues, and even complete strangers from the Bombay Natural History Society.

There were of course many other colourful stories about him as well – how he would drink tea with more than six spoons of sugar in it, how he would buy the most expensive mangos in the summer, and how he once made enough shrikhand for Latufoi’s house warming party single-handedly! One of the most amusing stories I remember is him jokingly announcing to my mother, in front of a few houseguests a few weeks after her wedding, that had he known she didn’t drink tea, he would never have let her marry his son! Of course baa came to her rescue!

I’m sure the stories that I’ve been told are just the tip of the iceberg. Even so, they paint a picture of Dada as someone who was deeply knowledgeable and passionate, extremely generous and selfless, loved adventure, and had a great sense of humour - even though he could be a bit stubborn sometimes. I wish I had had more time to get to know and make memories about that Dada, rather than just make do with stories.

Even once we came to Singapore in 1993, when his vision and hearing declined, and Alzheimer’s disease set in, it remained evident that the “original” Dada was still in there somewhere. He was pretty much a rock star amongst the regular walkers at the East Coast Parkway, where he would walk for about 5 kilometres daily. He didn’t let his blindness or lack of hearing hinder him, and didn’t let a few disconcerted looks stop him from greeting everyone he passed with a loud “hello”! Whether it was a little kid walking along the beach, or President Nathan (who he sometimes ran into in the mornings), the enthusiasm of the greeting was just the same.

Dada would regale houseguests, doctors and friends alike about stories and songs he remembered from his youth. During medical check-ups, doctors would be astounded at the state of his heart, remarking that even at ninety, he was fit enough to donate blood! Unimpressed, my feisty grandpa once called a doctor a quack to his face, for recommending a procedure he thought was expensive!

It seems unfair that someone who spent his whole life teaching others, giving his time to the visually handicapped, loving music and the outdoors had to spend his later years in the condition that Dada did. However, when I now think of Dada, I see in my mind’s eye the first notion that occurred to me when he passed on – that he is now spending his time chilling out on the most scenic mountaintop in heaven with my grandmother, watching the sun set over some snow-capped peaks, with a hot cup of tea in hand – with no less than six spoons of sugar, of course!