Love is love

Did you ever wake up one day with sudden nostalgia for your childhood? In my dorm room—several hundred miles away—I woke up with a deep longing for my home. The irony is it was my decision to pick a college as far away as possible to live independently. But on this cold night, surrounded by this disturbing silence, I am missing my home, my parents, my twin, and mostly, my grandpa.

It would not be an exaggeration to call my grandpa a master storyteller. He could entertain you in any situation, making you forget yourself. It was no wonder I didn’t know what boredom felt like until I moved here. This silence is making me wish my grandpa was here telling me stories, especially his ‘where I come from stories.’ I loved them, and I know he loved them too because they made his eyes shine a little brighter and made his smile a little deeper.              

I am not the only one who loved him and his stories. His aura will enchant anyone who meets him. I am not kidding; there are many people that will attest to this. My grandpa knows everybody, and everybody knows him. He is the first person who will reach out to people in their difficult times, so in return, he is the first person they will reach out to in their happiness. He always kept his kitchen and refrigerator stocked. Our neighbors, especially children of our neighborhood, knew they could drop by his home unannounced, and there would always be food and company.

Every child who met him—my friends included—claimed him as their grandpa. This used to bug my twin and me because we wanted him to be only ours. But now gratitude fills my heart when I see kids who have turned into sound adults dropping by his house to check on him and to help him around. Many have taken his principle of sending no one back with an empty stomach to their hearts and follow it diligently. I am no longer jealous of sharing my grandpa because I have realized his steady presence was the only thing constant in many unsteady lives.

If my grandpa was possessive of anything, it was of his backyard. He had filled every inch with plants from the land where he was born and from the land where he lived. Over the years, he has created a lush space he calls his Zen place. But we know that his garden reminded him of his home where everything was green and rich.

My grandpa loved his home and never missed a chance to talk about the richness of his home country, which was filled with wonderful people who helped each other and beautiful lands that were always fertile. So naturally, I would ask my grandpa, if he loved his home so much, why did he leave? He always answered it with, “if I hadn’t come, how would I ever have grandkids like you.”

My grandpa carried with him the rules and rituals of his homeland. One such thing was taking care of the elderly. Every Friday afternoon, he would cook up a large batch of his famous curry and bread. In the evening, he would fill up his truck with flowers, fruits, sweets, and food and jet off to the nearby old age home where people would await him with longing hearts. Sometimes, we used to accompany him on these rides. By the time we reached there, everyone would be waiting for us all dressed up. I still remember the old ladies who used to pinch our cheeks and fawn over us. Seeing people who never in their lives had used a whole chilly, trying to gobble up my grandpa’s curry with tears running from their eyes, always made us siblings laugh. On our ride back, my twin and I would giggle, remembering how some of them were sniffling even when they bid us goodbyes. But now I realize they might have been sniffling for other reasons.

Once on such a ride back, I made the mistake of teasing my grandpa that his parents might be waiting for somebody else’s curry just like people of this old age home. My comment wiped the smile off of his face. I can still remember the chill I felt seeing my grandpa without a smile. By the next morning, he had become his jolly self, but I still felt guilty. When I asked my mom how I could correct my mistake, she said there was nothing I could do. In my grandpa’s culture, the elder son was supposed to take care of his parents, but my grandpa left his home so his daughter could have a better future. Even though he sent money to his brother for his parents’ well-being, he still felt guilty for abandoning his responsibilities. He eased that guilt by taking care of the elders here.

My parents’ home was just two houses down from grandpa’s. My mom inherited her father’s generosity. So, everyone knew everything about us. I couldn’t do anything without the shadow of my family following me. Even the neighborhood bullies would threaten to punish us siblings if we ever crossed a line. No wonder I thought I was chained. But just in a few months, I have realized that I have always been independent. Neither my parents nor my grandpa ever mandated their kids to follow in their footsteps. They were always there to pick us up if we ever fell, but they never stopped us from trying. So, I will go back to a college near home just like my twin.

Now I realize how powerful nostalgia can be.

***

My twin and I are bubbling with excitement. Our parents only know we have been preparing a special gift for grandpa for his birthday. They have given up trying to guess what it is after many failed attempts. As soon as grandpa enters his home, we attack him with hugs. My parents give him their gift and my twin and me ours. As expected, he opens ours first. We both are waiting to see his smile, but to our horror tears start to fall from his eyes. My mom snatches the envelope from his hands and looks at the open-ended flight ticket for my grandpa’s home country.

She sighs and sits in front of my grandpa. “Maybe it’s time. I know how much you love your home…”

“No baccha,” Grandpa cuts off my mother before she can finish her sentence. “My home is where you are.”

“But…”

“No buts. I will not go back to a place where you and your family have to live in fear or shame.”

After saying this, my grandpa silently stands and goes to do his gardening. We siblings look at each other without understanding what was going on. Then we hear our mom calling us to sit beside her. “Come. Sit here. Today I will tell the story of a man. A man who was forced to leave his homeland so his daughter can live without fear. A man who is waiting for the day his homeland will realize love is love, no matter what…”