Dada

If there were only one thing I could inherit from my grandfather, it would be his kindness.

My kindness seeks appreciation. I like being kind. I like being called kind. He didn’t care. He was kind to people who loved him, those who liked him, those who hated him, and those who didn’t know he existed.

His presence in my life was like a shadow. He was always there but we didn’t talk much but somehow my values reflect his presence.

He passed away last year. I wanted to write this then. I felt guilty because I didn’t feel like I knew him well enough to write anything. What will I write? I knew him so little that no information about him seems to be lost in the last year. Not much of it existed.

I still clearly remember the day he died. It was late in the evening. The sun had set and so had the bearer of kindness in my family. My dad and I were out when we got a call from my mom. No words of death were spoken on the call but he had been sick for a while now so both of us knew what my mom meant when she told us to come home as soon as possible.

On that day hundreds of people came and cried. They cried hard because they missed him. They cried because they were reliving the memories they had of my grandfather. The way he treated them, the way he helped them, the way he loved them. And I too was crying. Crying because I was basking in the cruelty that I never made any memories with him. His grandson felt like a stranger compared to hundreds of these people.

I was too shy to ask him stories of his life. how he went from a small meager accountant to a business man that supported so many people. I always thought I had more time to listen to those stories. Maybe ranking up in Clash Royale seemed more important in that moment.

He’d be right there; writing “ram” repeatedly in his books. He finished dozens, probably hundreds, of these books. All with only one word: “ram”. I took home the unfinished book the day he died. His worsening handwriting faded away into oblivion one random day. About 2 months before he died. I’ll complete it. One day. That’ll be my parting gift to life. The book from the person who taught me how to live without ever telling it to me. He didn’t have to. His presence was enough.

I love you. Rest well, Dada. ❤️