Grandpa’s haunt by Swetha Amit

The day I got a call about my grandpa’s deadly fall, I stopped all my assignments, grabbed my car keys, and rushed to the hospital. He lay there, plastered with wires and a beeping machine to his right. After a few days, I found myself at his funeral in his house, where I spent my childhood vacations.

The old bungalow had the same-rickety green windows and the staircase leading up to the room where Dadu kept his journals, books, and old newspapers, as I fondly called him. There was the terrace where the mango tree branched out generously. I remember how Dadu, and I would shoot mangoes with stones. I remember how the shadows of the branches looked scary at night and imagined they were ghouls. The rocking chair carried the scent of Dadu, traces of his favorite soap, and the white scarf against the armrest. I smiled at the memory of seeing him take his afternoon naps, snoring loudly, and waking up to the chiming grandfather clock.

The bookshelf that contains Dadu’s eclectic collections looked and smelt the same. Musty and rustic. Dadu was obsessed with storytelling and would convince me to listen to one of his tales from the Indian epics. One day, he’d said, these lessons from the stories will make you wiser. I rummaged through his collection to find that book from which he’d read stories about Karma and reincarnation. The pages were delicate and pale yellow; the writing was faint and in Sanskrit. I ran my fingers through it slowly, afraid of tearing the pages as Dadu was particular about his precious collection. Those days of storytelling sessions in the garden amidst coconut trees and banana plantains appeared like a flash.

I wonder what I was doing here after so many years. Why did I stop talking to Dadu? I remember it was after the baby boy came. He seemed to be the center of Dadu’s love and affection. I felt equivalent to a wastepaper cast away in the trash can. I nursed my wounded childish ego, never returned his calls, and eventually stopped visiting him.

I went up to his desk and looked at some of his journals. Some posts were about his banter with my grandmother, which made me smile. How they’d squabble like kids. Others were about his long walks and the garden he maintained with care. My glance fell on a package of envelopes stacked in one corner. Most of them were addressed to my younger brother. I found a carefully wrapped present with my name. It was a copy of the Indian epic with an English translation and a long letter written in his immaculate handwriting. A letter that conveyed his love and apology. Silent tears ran down my cheeks, wishing I could return in time and get a chance to say goodbye.

Swetha is an Indian author based in California and a recent MFA graduate at University of San Francisco. She has published works across genres in Atticus Review, Oranges Journal, Toasted Cheese, and others. She is a reader for The Masters Review, and a staff writer for Fauxmoir lit mag. Her two stories have been nominated for Pushcart Prize 2022 She is an alumni of Tin House Winter Workshop and the Kenyon Review Writers’ workshop 2022.

https://swethaamit.com

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