My Grandfather's Scooter

My grandfather was my favorite person in my entire family. I would eagerly wait for the summer break to begin so I could spend a good one month with him and the rest of my extended family, who I found reasonably tolerable. I would hear my father and the other elders of the family call him ‘Daddy’ and had unconsciously picked up this word to address him. I would spend hours talking to Daddy or playing board games with him. Daddy was a wonderful story-teller. He would often narrate stories from his childhood in Pakistan, where he lived until the partition in 1947, and then fled to India with his parents and siblings. Sometimes, he would teach me to write Urdu alphabets, which I would forget by the time I met him next. But he would never lose patience with me. My math homework would be almost impossible to solve without his help.

Despite his deteriorating health, he would never refuse to take me around the town in his old, rickety Vespa. I would stand on the foot rest and look around fixedly. After buying vegetables from the bazaar, we would often stop to have samosas, a type of fried snack. Almost everyone in the town knew Daddy as the old, retired professor of English and would greet him with respect. They would also recognise his green Vespa as it had these shiny silver stickers on the front panel spelling out his name in bold English letters. I clearly remember the day I stuck them there. I was hardly five and had recently learnt the English alphabets. I was thrilled to surprise Daddy with his name on his scooter. So I found these stickers and carefully spelled – SARVAGYA, meaning omniscient, as I was told later.

There were times when he would come visit us at our home in New Delhi. He wasn’t a fan of big cities and therefore chose to live in his small town. Even when he visited, he would stay at home most of the times. He spent almost all of his waking hours reading books – that is, when I would be away at school. On my return, he would place his book down and intently listen to me babble about my day at school.

I hated it when he had to leave, knowing that I wouldn’t see him in a long while.

***

It was the year 2005 and I had recently turned eighteen. I was in my room when the phone rang. A few minutes later I heard my dad howl out the terrible news to my mom. Daddy had passed away. It took me several minutes before I could react. It was hard to accept that he was no more with us. It somehow, seemed untrue.

***

After the funeral procession, we returned home to Daddy’s belongings. They seemed to question us about his whereabouts. The next day, with a heavy heart, we donated all his clothes to the poor and his books to a local school. His music cassettes and personal diaries were packed in a box and kept away in the attic. It was a deeply painful process for all of us. We had given away almost all of his possessions to people who were in need of them, knowing that that’s what Daddy would’ve wanted us to do. However, we decided to keep the scooter in his memory. So I drove it to my uncle’s old garage that was vacant and seldom used, parked it carefully and watched the bright silver alphabets shine, as if honoring his name. I pulled the shutter down and locked the garage for good. And then ... I sat down and wept.

***

As custom demanded, we were to spend a whole year in mourning. That meant no celebrations on festivals or birthdays. Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, was around the corner. We decided to only light a few diya, or earthen lamps, at the entrance of the house and refrain from wearing new clothes or lighting fireworks.

Two days before Diwali, my mother sent me to Sarojini Nagar, the nearest flea market, to buy a few dozen diya and other essentials for the prayer rituals. After a long tiring day at college and then the sports academy, I took a bus and reached the market at about six in the evening. I caught sight of a juice shop and decided to first quench my thirst.

As I stood there, sipping fresh orange juice, I suddenly spotted something ... my heart skipped a beat. Daddy’s green Vespa!

It stood a few yards away but I could clearly see his name on the front panel gawking at me. I was instantly drawn towards it. I slowly walked towards the scooter, trying to fathom its presence.

I was about to touch the scooter when suddenly, there was a deafening blast and I was thrown away by a gush of hot wind. I toppled and fell a few feet away. Bewildered, I looked up and saw the sky dim with smoke. The entire bazaar, including the juice shop where I stood a while ago, was wrecked and on fire. There was blood everywhere. Severed limbs scattered on all sides. I spotted the juice seller lying on the floor, only without legs. A girl screamed at a distance ... her chest was visibly ripped open. I stood up, not knowing what to do. I turned around looking for the scooter that had saved my life ... It was gone.

***

“Terror strikes Delhi: 43 dead and several injured. Pakistan-based Islamist terrorist organisation, The Islamic Front, claims responsibility”, I heard a woman report on a television news channel.

I couldn’t sleep that night. My mind wandered between the horrific images that would continue to haunt me for many days ... and Daddy’s scooter.

Was I hallucinating? How could the scooter disappear? Not a trace to be found! But uncle said the garage had been locked ever since ... How could this be? There had to be an explanation ...

***

I left for my uncle’s town the next morning. After several hours of a bumpy bus ride, I finally reached home by evening. After a few quick customary greetings, I asked for the garage’s key and walked out. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what to expect.

Had somebody broken in and ridden the scooter all the way to Delhi? Who and why would anybody do that?

My heart was racing. I quickly unlocked the shutter and lifted it up.

There it was. Just the way I had left it. The cobwebs ascertained that the scooter rested undisturbed. So it was my imagination after all ... one that saved me ... phew!

I drew a long breath and walked closer to the scooter, reminiscing my childhood days with Daddy. I touched the dilapidated seat cover, enjoying its warmth. I couldn’t leave without looking at those stickers. With a nostalgic excitement, I moved forward.

The front panel ... it was blank ... the stickers ... they were gone!

***