How I met my grandfather

Lately, my maternal grandfather – Mr. Clarence Motha – has started to bear a slight resemblance to Spotted Owlets. Especially, the curving slope on his cranium. These days, it looks smooth and swollen, like the skull of an elderly owlet.

My grandfather is 91 years old. His health has been deteriorating of late. He has been referring to this phase of his life as the “sunset years”. Bed-ridden for most of the day, his body and mind are crumbling. All that seems left of him is a ghostly reminder of someone I once knew.

When it is time, I hope he finds the inner strength to let go of the life that he had led for close to a century. Because I don’t want him to suffer much longer. Despite not having exchanged a word for about 10 years, he has always been a driving force in my life.


Methaiappa (loosely translated as “father who lives upstairs”), as we always knew him as, grew up in pre-Independence India. He was as eccentric as he was witty and intelligent. He had a deep-rooted passion for language. A self-taught writer, he pursued a career as a professor and scholar. For almost half a century, he taught a variety of subjects at the Loyola University in Chennai. During that time, he also trained talented journalists and writers from all over the city. Some of them turned out to be prominent figures. Today, they credit him for having shaped not only the way they write, but the manner in which perceive the world around them.

My sister and I used to spend many of our childhood summer vacations with him. During the day, he would hardly ever leave his study room. There was a wooden table that always smelled of fresh vegetables. Books of all shapes and sizes were neatly arranged on it. Stacked up, for personal growth, pride, and posterity. He often sat crookedly on a wooden chair and he would either read for hours or write his heart out – as his eyes twinkled madly. He wouldn’t notice me even if I stood by the door.

When he wasn’t there, I would go flip through the yellowing pages. One time, I saw a copy of Franz Kafka’s Metamorphoses. Later, I had asked him what it was about and I remember, vividly, that he had told me it was a story of someone who was a stranger in his own house.


During night-time, we had a happy family ritual. After dinner, grandma would start to draw the rusty-brown curtains in the sleeping area. My sister and I, along with our little cousins, would pretend it was time to hit the sack. Then, Methaiappa – wearing a shawl over his head – would peak through the folds of the curtains. Instantly, we knew that a bedtime story-was-a-coming. Theatrically, he would recite chilling tales from the books of Arthur Conan Doyle and Edgar Allen Poe. It was a cerebral and emotional roller-coaster ride.

The ritual only ended when the Kulfi ice cream vendor found his way into our hearts by thumbing his bicycle bell. We would stand outside the front door and giggle at each other’s cold milk mustaches.

When I was 9 years old, I overheard a loud argument over the phone. I remember it vividly. Things were said. We ended up being separated from our grandparents. The adults were clear that there was to be strictly no communication. They had agreed with each other that it was for the best. The silent feud lasted for more than a decade.

Soon after the split, I had nurtured a love for writing. I could never be sure if my grandfather had been the sole inspiration behind it. That may have made for a better narrative. But my memory continues to fail me. The speech impediment I had back then was a huge motivator too. But, I recall being disappointed and unhappy that he wasn’t around to tell me what he thought about my writing.

Sometimes, I would bite my fingernails and wonder whether he would have been proud of me, as the world’s smallest violin played in the background.

During the early 2000s, my parents told me – one fine day – that things were back to normal between the families. It turned out that old wounds were healed. I never asked them about the details. I was excited about reconnecting with Methaiappa.

For the next 15 or so years, I hardly ever visited him. Not nearly as much as he would have wanted me to. Or I assumed that I would have. Even though, he has always lived only a few minutes away from wherever I was. I could have easily spent more time with him. We only met about 8-10 times a year during family functions and festival dinners. And it wasn’t that I had a busy work or social schedule. There was no awkwardness of having been disconnected for so long. No leftover drama or bickering.

In fact, I still could relate to him more than I could with anyone else, related by blood or through language. Every time we had a conversation, we would laugh at how barmy and aloof we appeared to the rest of the family.

Apart from the essays I used to publish during my brief stint as a music columnist for a newspaper, he hadn’t read anything else I had written. I had barely ever published outside my line of work, so I never had the opportunity to show off my writing skills to him. So, in 2014, in a fit of vanity, I printed a book of my poems as a tribute to him, with artwork created by a dear and talented friend. I made only a single copy. I went on a Saturday afternoon to give it to him. He read a few of the poems and said many nice things about them. It didn’t feel like a dramatic moment between an erstwhile teacher and a wayward student. It just felt good.

Since January 2017, his health has been growing from bad to worse. Having had some frightening falls, he has been bed-ridden. I heard about it when I was hospitalized. Two weeks ago, my sister called me up and told me that I ought to visit him. Because he may not be around much longer.

When my condition improved, I went over to his house. And it was depressing to see him in that state; wrinkled, wounded and weak. But despite it, he was able to wax nostalgic about some of his favorite memories. He also thanked my sister and me many times for showing up. I felt uncomfortable because I knew that I could have done a lot more.

I hope that Methaiappa fades gently into the night whenever he wants to. I reckon that as the cliche goes, a small part of me will go away with him. But isn’t that the loveliest part of letting go of someone? To give a part of us to someone without any chance of getting it back? In fact, I am pretty sure that it is why I wrote this. I can pretend that it is a tribute to the sort of grandfather he was. But I think it is more about the grandson that I wish I wasn’t.

All I want to do now is pat him on his Spotted Owlet scalp and ruffle the feathers that remain. And tell him that he has been the single-most influential person in my life.

Thank you, Methaiappa, for everything.

(Images: Pixabay)

53 thoughts on “How I met my grandfather

Add yours

  1. the ties that bind, old voices that stir the mind. I, also, hear my grandfather talking to my heart, and I miss his smile now worlds apart. Thank you, once again, you have shaken forgotten memories back into consciousness.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Voices that have left behind breadcrumbs and footsteps of the sun. I am glad and humbled that I helped stir some of your precious memories, dear friend of mine. I hope you write about him someday and I ll take pleasure devouring it.


  2. First off, I am reading this from my desktop, post-surgery — no glasses. I couldn’t think of a better place to ‘try out’ my repaired eyes.

    What a tender piece to write, not only for your owls but for your grandfather. I feel joy that you have made up for the missing years and for your future gift of poetry to him.
    I wish my memories of mine were as sharp, but my favorite one passed when I was still a teen and the other — the gardener, the naturalist — hardly ever talked. I feel I am most like him of my whole family only never got to say to so to him; he passed before my oldest was born. We called him The Little General (and he was, retired from the army).

    My own father and I have been estranged for more than a year. I have tried hard to keep the lines of communication between my children and him open, but relationship-building takes two. Now that I am no longer ‘driving’ it, my kids are learning that lesson firsthand. If only he knew how much they longed for him.

    PS – what a noble way to publish your works! 😀

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you Shannon ❤ you summed up what I feel perfectly.

      Little General sounds boss (see, we can be hip).

      And the fences always mend themselves, Shannon. I am sure your children will have memorable experiences with theirs too.

      Noble eh? I ll take it (big, big smile)


  3. ‘college, like mastication, was perfunctory’,
    ‘If everything worked out perfectly for everyone all the time, it would lead to the dawn of the apocalypse. Or Chimpanzees. Maybe both.’
    ‘One looked as though it was made for a Stanley Kubrick film.’
    ‘He claimed, with panache, that it was story-time.’

    Very nicely done with just the right amounts of entertainment, wit, humor, emotion and heartwarming. Really good writing. Looking forward as always to reading more of this kind of stuff from you.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. maybe you should give him rather than drawing conclusions…maybe he will feel proud that his grandson is carrying on his legacy…or just happy that you did it for him…don’t back out now…

    Liked by 1 person

  5. To be honest, I loved the write up more than the pics this time. May be because I too was really fond of my grandfather whom I lovingly addressed as Muthacha. It is such a sad thing that the children have to suffer for the immaturity od elders in most family feuds. I have a boy all of eight in the neighbourhood, who spends four hours after school all alone as his parents have fought and separated from their parents. The boy misses them madly. And the grandparents come and meet him secretly. I read the post and then went back to enjoy the owlets. Beautiful clicks!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Rekha, you always say such lovely things, and share personal stories. It’s really one of the reasons why I love sharing mine, to hear others tell me theirs.

      And I hope the little boy keeps connecting with them.

      Thanks again ❤


  6. Thanks C for sharing this. I know this story from before and was very happy to read it here again. It’s written beautifully. Someday I will tell you about my grand father 🙂 If I were to think of a bird for him, I think it’d be Egret. It was great working on your booklet and I hope we’d collaborate again soon. Hugs! ❤ x

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Good post, Verseherder. Something about owls makes them intimidating creatures, like they’re aware of some profound truth that we can’t see yet and they’re just sitting there watching and waiting for humanity to perish so they can take over our cities and towns and live in our houses and stuff. Creepy owl watchers.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Oh you nailed it, good sir. The rock doves, at one point, used to scare me for that very reason. Flying about, back and forth, cooing like they knew something we probably should too.

      Loved the bit about “waiting for humanity to perish so that they can take over”. I will stoop down to betrayal and be their willing servant!

      Thank you for the wonderful train of thought, Robert!


  8. Now, this is what I consider a precious revelation! You definitely don’t need to hide behind Mr. Hemingway—in case you haven’t written a book of prose yet, go for it (but stay loyal to your followers)!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Aww shucks, thanks bud! That’s a mighty kind thing to say. I haven’t written a book yet because well, these things just happen, I suppose. I am very glad you found this space of mine, look forward to haunting yours.

      Liked by 1 person

  9. Such a simple way to describe metamorphoses.
    I am nostalgic now after reading your wonderful write up, about the ones who meant so much to me during my childhood, and now have faded away.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Reminded me of my maternal grandmother, of warm, yellow evenings when we sat by the window talking, of the love we had for certain things that others couldn’t understand… thank you!
    Hope you are well!

    Liked by 1 person

  11. Respected Sir/ Mr. Motha was my Professor at Loyola College in the mid 60s. I have a lot of respect for him. Your article about your Grandfather was very impressive and it brought back old memories. My fond regards to a truly Great man.

    Liked by 1 person

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