Musings of a Delhi Boy

Bhapaji, as we used to address my maternal grandfather, was a soft-spoken and docile gentleman. With a diminutive frame- a small Sikh turban adorning his head- and an irregular beard, he was anything but a Lion, as his name- Sher Singh Kapur- denoted. His straightforward and simple persona ensured that he was loved and respected by one and all, including our family-my father (Daddy), Bhapaji’s third child (and second daughter) my mother (Mummy), and my elder brother, whom we fondly call Sunny. The feelings were reciprocal- Bhapaji doted on us.

Bhapaji had retired from the Postal Service Department, and maybe due to this reason, held my father- who was also employed in the Central Government- in high esteem. That we were middle class, as against most of my maternal relatives, who were quite rich by our standard, was of no consequence to him. Neither did the fact that in his lifetime, we continued to live in Central Government apartments allotted to my father, rather than a kothi, as independent houses are still called in status conscious Delhi, matter to him.

Both Bhapaji, and my maternal grandmother (Wadi Mummy), were visionaries in more ways than one. They ensured that their four children, including the three girls, received good education even in those days, and were suitably employed- my mother was a teacher in a government school for almost four decades. It was due to this respect for learning and higher studies that when my brother got admission to one of the most reputed engineering colleges of the country, Bhapaji’s pride and happiness knew no bounds.

He was extremely fond of reading. Whenever we visited my Uncle’s house- with whom Bhapaji and Wadi Mummy stayed- I always found him poring over something or the other, sometimes for hours on end. He was reticent, and stayed away from family banter, in which Wadi Mummy was a vociferous participant. My Aunt, a good cook, used to prepare a sumptuous meal, but Bhapaji had a frugal diet, and abstained from heavy Punjabi cuisine.

But there was one thing for which his fondness spilled over- the coffee brewed by my brother. For that, he would often drop in at our house early morning, sometimes, even during winters, which can be quite harsh in Delhi, supported by his walking stick, ensconced in a tweed coat and woolen trousers, a neck tie in place. He would sip the coffee hot, and then, as a token of love and affection, handover a Rs. 10/- note, a significant amount in those days, to my brother. All requests by Daddy, urging Bhapaji to stay longer, had no bearing on him, and he left once the coffee was over.

But as the saying goes, there are many storms lurking under the surface of calm seas.

For Wadi Mummy and Bhapaji, 1976-77 were perhaps the worst years of their lives. Towards 1976, Tripta, my younger Massi, whom we fondly called Tippy Aunty, was diagnosed with an intestinal ailment. Despite undergoing the best treatment available at that time, Tippy Aunty’s condition deteriorated steadily. Then, in 1977, one morning, as I was getting ready for school, the doorbell rang (these were the days when telephone was a rarity, and it was to be another decade before we got one installed in our house). Daddy opened the door. It was Bhapaji, weeping copiously, his eyes searching for Mummy. I was too young to grasp gravity of what had happened- but as I saw Mummy and Bhapaji hugging each other, and crying silently, I realized that it had something to do with Tippy Aunty’s health.

The passing away of Tippy Aunty- their youngest child- shattered Wadi Mummy and Bhapaji like nothing else could have done. It was an emotional setback from which neither of them recovered- its implications extending to their physical health, which had a steady downfall thereon.

In his later years, Bhapaji suffered from hearing loss, and could listen with the help of a hearing aid, which, in the seventies, were not as sophisticated as they are these days. I often used to tease him for this, but to his credit, he took it all in his stride. His eyesight also diminished (Bhapaji left us in 1980, just before I entered my teens) to an extent that he required a magnifying glass to read. This also provided me with the opportunity to play an occasional prank on him. I often took away his magnifying glass when he was not around, and dabbled with it- he feigned a feeling of dismay over this uncalled for transgression.

But my fondest memory of Bhapaji is of how he used to call me.

Like all Punjabi kids in those days (the trend is almost over now), I was also given a ‘Pet’ name-Prince- at birth, by my brother, who thought (rightly so) that I looked like royalty. As I started growing, I became quite a brat- always prancing from one place to the other (like a bird hopping from one branch to the other), chattering non-stop (like the chirping of a bird), my laughter echoing far and wide. With my innocent and cute looks (fair complexion and thick lock of curly hair; as others still have me believe), and infectious exuberance, perhaps, Bhapaji felt that my traits were akin to that of a small bird. I can’t recollect from when, but the only way he ever called me was as ‘Panchhi‘- a bird.

And I loved it!!!

I often wonder, whether he would have continued calling me by this name as I grew older, and the traits of a Panchhi diminished in me, as they are bound to happen in all of us? Well, though the answer to this will forever remain hidden in the realm of speculation, my guess is that I would always have remained his Panchhi.

But today, decades later, I feel a sense of deep remorse, at not having developed a rapport with Bhapaji to an extent of what I had with Wadi Mummy (who left us in 1981, one year after Bhapaji). It is a lost opportunity- of not getting to know, understand and learn- from one of the finest gentlemen I have ever come across.

Now, my only hope is that it might still happen- maybe, some other time, in some other life.

Dear Bhapaji!!!

Your Panchhi will fly over to meet you!!!