The Grandospection

Mom’s voice climbed up the stairs again, panting in exhaustion. Trying to wake me for the uncountdreth time. Only this time it had something different to say. Something that… well, made no great arrhythmic aberration to my slumber.

Granpa is coming to visit you.

Adam Young, Owl City’s lead singer asks me through the headphones, The grandfather clock seems to have chimed family time! Should I buzz off?

I am absolutely convinced that the question was more out of the blood-curdling memories of his own personal experiences with grannies, rather than courtesy towards his latest fan.

Oh no Adam, stay stay. It’s okay.

He hid a chuckle in a loud strum of bass, and continued playing.

I went back to sleep.

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How are you feeling now, son?

I woke up with a start, and felt cold hands on my foot. The texture was too uniform and hard to be human.

Hi granpa.

Keep some windows open son. Fresh air and sunlight is great for the body and mind.

He went ahead and unlatched some, while I blinked and stayed on the bed.

Also gives some warmth to the room, you know.

But it’s not really cold in here.

Then why are your legs tucked under that blanket? Granpa asked with a smile.

Patience meter is showing below 50% and fast thinning.

What the hell? I didn’t even wake up yet. Oh yeah right, dad had forced an early shutdown last midnight. It seems viral fever could worsen on prolonged exposure to laptop screens. That logic had eaten up a week’s patience reserves.

Damn. Just when I needed it the mostest.

'Cos I like it so' would have been my ideal response to gran’s question, but I settled for a shrug and a smile.

I also do it sometimes son. I also wear a wool turban covering the whole of my ears. But by morning, it would have fallen off though. Ha ha. He laughed loud, showing that protruding yellow tooth of his.

I managed a smile.

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I didn’t know you were sick son. No one told me. You know how it is between me and your grandma. She never tells me anything.

They rarely spoke. About anything. She was perpetually angry. The only known reason being, he was a respected postmaster and an even more popular communist activist, and tended to the society more than home. A version he refuses vehemently.

But today when I was reading the paper, I overheard her on the phone with someone. From whatever I could pick up, I figured you were ill. So how are you now?

I’m fine now granpa. It’s just the weakness now.

Oh, that comes with viral. Will go in two days. Don’t worry.

His brother was (is?) a doctor and owing to that exposure, he considered himself an authority in most common ailments. Homoeopathy is hardly ever considered seriously, but we kids never refused those pills. Those little balls of sugar; in tiny plastic bottles with colored caps.

Possible nose blockage also right? I also had breathing troubles when I was a kid, you know. Made me breathe through my mouth all the time. Which is why my teeth are like this. Ha ha.

Tell me about it. (!)

I flashed my teeth braces for him to see. He got the hint.

Ha ha. My son, where were such things at our age... Even if there was, who could afford it? My dad was a school teacher. Have I told you that story?

Here we go.

I nodded in exasperation. Yes you have granpa.

It costs you lakhs to learn MBA, doesn’t it? Can you believe my high school fees were 5 Rs? In those years, one could buy a sack of rice for that money!

This is not good.

And you know, a sack of rice could feed a family of five, three meals a day, for a week.

This is just not good.

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He continued. From one thing to another. Picking up an insignificant little nugget from the last sentence of every big paragraph to form the basis of the next big paragraph. And the big paragraphs kept coming.

I heard, never listened.

But I watched, in slow motion. His face was animated, the trembling hands making many actions to symbolize relevant portions in the current story. He looked like a story teller on home consultation.

I could sleep. I’ve slept in the midst of bigger noises. But it would be rude. Wonder where all my moral quotients go for tour when I snore before all those poor professors.

Heck, I pay their salaries.

I stood up and walked around the room. Kicked my brother’s ball around. No, that soft blue and white one.

It bounced and went out. Thank goodness. I followed it.

And he followed me.

Your single room is big? Can you play like this there? How many chairs are there?

One. (How does it even matter, grandpa?)

So if someone comes in, they’ll have to sit on the bed, right?

Yeah. Right.

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Mom came in with tea and biscuits. She realized my situation and winked.

You shouldn’t buy these cream biscuits you know. They’re bad. He said and took a bite.

Mom whispered to me.

Show him some pics of your college on your laptop. Otherwise you know his capacity to talk.

And you think that will stop him mom? Seriously?

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Son, your tea is getting cold.

Yaa Granpa. I took out my cell phone and started texting my brother.

Who are you calling son? You getting bored of all this talk?

Oh no no. Go on. It’s just sms.

I didn’t tell him it read, ‘someone has to ask grandpa to shut up. I don’t want to be the one’

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An hour and many decades later, he gets up from his chair.

Looks like you are getting bored son. I think I will leave. I could sit till lunch and go on. Ha ha. But I’ll let you do your things.

For the first time ever, I felt hit.

There’s no power back home right? Mom told me it’s under repair. Why don’t you watch some news and stay for lunch? Mom asked on his way out.

We kids used to hate him for spoiling lunch-time TV with news on every channel.

Oh no. I rarely watch news these days. Can’t even finish reading the papers.

The pain of having to watch his party’s current status was evident, if you knew where to look.

He walked on.

His small frame casting a shadow of history.

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I knew I would get over it. But I didn’t want to.

I kept thinking.

He has stories. Loads of it. Everyone does.

Pretending to listen is the least I could do.

The only written letter I’ve ever received was from him, from Dubai.

It had great stories too.

Now I dread them.

I hate my parents asking me so many questions.

I hate it when my dad tries to crack a joke.

I hate it when they forget something I said.

I hate it when they fuss over my headache.

Why?

Why when I so willingly subject myself to endless crap by so many arses?

Why when I spent hours on phone listening to nothing but murmur?

Why when I tolerate irritating pricks all day long?

Why when I listen to pathetic jokes and force laughs?

Why when I bother people by opening a bag of chatter shit myself?

And why do i know i will do these exact same things again?

Why?

Because I am an asshole?

True story.

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Epilogue: (Added 262 minutes later)

The thermo is showing 99! You have the damn fever again. Why don’t you ever listen to me? Shut that damn laptop and come down here!

But, what has my poor box got anything to do with my fever?

Not fever, it can cause eye strain and headache moron!

But I don’t have a headache.

Yeaah. Not now you don’t. But it will come!

Whaat?!

His fan was put in full throttle yesterday, maybe that’s why.

But did you tell me not to?

Why do you always argue like this? You could do with a bit more control, u know!

Aarghh... These people!

I can see my brother laughing. Can't see the joke he sees?

Look at Me.