Letter Up Above

Dear Grandpa,

It is strange how memory works. Out of all the years we had, the one that comes back to me most clearly is the Cricket World Cup final. Dhoni hits the winning six, the room erupts, and your laugh rises above everything else. That is still my favorite memory of you.

I am in college now. If there is one thing I keep thinking about, it is that you did not get to see this part. You did not get to watch me leave home, figure things out, and at least pretend that I know where I am going. I know you wanted me to join the army. I know how much that meant to you. I also know that it was never really my path, no matter how hard I tried to make it fit.

The older I get, the more I understand how difficult your life must have been. When you told me that you had no proper place to live in your twenties, I nodded along as if I understood. I did not. I could not.

Now I think of what you built: a roof over your head, food on the table, and a family that never had to doubt who was holding the center together. You made dependability look ordinary. Only later do we realize how much weight one person had been carrying all along.

Telling you and Dad that I did not want to join the army was one of the hardest things I have done. You never made a big scene about your disappointment, which somehow made it worse. I could see it, even when you refused to show it. And yet, when I failed to get into a good college after school and took a drop year, you did not hold that against me.

Instead, you did what you always did. You quietly stood beside me. You clipped an article from the newspaper for me, something about how to prepare during a drop year. You had this habit of cutting out such pieces for me. I did not appreciate those gestures enough at the time. I mostly glanced at the articles and moved on. But I know now what was really being passed to me. Not the paper. Not the advice. Faith.

For a long time I wondered why I did not cry at your funeral. I cried before that day, when I saw you in a hospital bed and could not reconcile that sight with the man I knew. But when the moment finally came, there were no tears. Just disbelief. Maybe grief is not always loud. Maybe sometimes it is simply the refusal to accept that the world will continue without someone who made it feel anchored.

Even now, a part of me still feels as though I will watch the next World Cup final with you. A part of me still thinks there will be more newspaper clippings, more practical advice, more of that particular silence that says, "I am here, even if I am not saying much."

I wish you could have seen me leave for college. I wish you could have watched me become at least a little more independent. I did not get into the kind of college that would have impressed everyone, but I am doing alright. Better than alright, some days.

I still try to be as disciplined as you were, and I still fall short. But if I have inherited even a fraction of your steadiness, I will count myself lucky. You were the biggest influence of my life. You still are. The next time I write to you, I hope it will be as someone who has built something dependable too. Maybe not with the same grit. Maybe not with the same grace. But honestly enough that you would recognize the effort.

Your loving grandson.

P.S. Grandma gave me your silver Titan watch. I wear it occasionally.