Why I'm haunted by my grandfather's unanswered questions

My grandfather used to visit us only once every year, a couple of weeks after Maha Shivratri in the month of March for distributing the walnut prasad to all near and dear ones in Srinagar city.

He would never use public transport and travelled the length and breadth of the city on foot. I used to always join him in this prasad-distribution ritual, where I met some of my relatives for the first time.

I had great admiration for my grand pa, one because he knew interesting historical stories, second he could find his way with ease in the spider web-like dingy bylanes of Habba Kadal with rickety houses, some leaning on their necks, some with drifted foundation, some hugging each other.

The houses were so close to each that one used to gasp for breath and there was no scope for seeing the sky above.

Grand pa always had two repeat questions for me: He would ask me to name countries which had a majority Hindu population, apart from India; second, he wanted me to guess his age.

I would immediately reply Surinam and Bali for the first, and 61 for the second. I could see the twinkle in his light blue eyes and wide dimple marks on his smiling graceful face.

He would say he was much elder and the reason for his youthful looks was his daily walk, strict diet and intake of pure milk two times a day.

It must have been the start of the autumn of 1989. We had been living in the Children Hospital staff quarters, adjacent to the Lal Ded hospital on the banks of river Jhelum, popularly known as "100-bed haspatal", for almost close to six years.

Hazuri Bagh, aka Children's Park, was just in front of us, where Farooq Abdullah had laid the foundation for a circular railway track and introduced a small electricity-operated miniature train, so that children in Srinagar could get the feel of a train ride as there were no trains in Kashmir. Many like me hadn't even ventured out of the Valley even in their teens.

This same park was used for assembling and burning the giant, colourful, well-crafted caricatures of Ravan and his brothers stuffed with a variety of firecrackers on Dussehra. The ground was overtaken on Sundays by bullies from all mohallas for cricket matches with bets being placed on them.

We received an unexpected welcome guest from our village Kilam in mid-autumn. It was my grandfather wearing a Karakul (a traditional Kashmiri cap made from the fur of aborted lamb foetuses). He wasn't looking his usual self. I waited the entire evening for him to ask me his two favourite questions. The night passed but he didn't speak a word even with my father or my sibling. He was answering in monosyllables.

Next day, my mother, who worked as a gynaecologist in Lal Ded hospital, returned back home after one of her prolonged night shifts. No sooner did my mother enter, my grandfather was keen on speaking to her about something.

My grandfather always looked for advice from my mother, He pulled out a note written in Urdu from his pocket and handed it over to my mother. My mother looked back at him and enquired about the details. She most probably thought that it was something related to property as most official records in Kashmir were maintained in Urdu.

My grandfather, in a very feeble and choked voice, told her that he had received a threat letter from some militant organisation signed by one of the self-styled area commander from the same locality.

I don't know, for a strange reason, for the first time in my life, I felt that my grandfather, a teacher by profession, was some kind of a renowned person and that was why he was receiving this "attention" from the militants.

My mother kept her poise and asked him not to worry. In the same breath, she told him to prepone his customary winter visit to Jammu. I wasn't convinced and was angry.

I thought that my mother had overreacted and these threat letters were of no significance. However, my grandfather who always banked upon my mother's advice left with my grandmother to Jammu in a week.

I'm not sure of the month, must have been late autumn of 1989, when I saw a the photograph of a person killed in cold blood by the militants in the local daily. I was shocked and in tears when I read the name. It was Shri Neelkant Ganjoo, retired judge who had sentenced Maqbool Bhat. Neelkant was the grandfather of my dear friend and classmate, Siddarth Ganjoo,

Those words echoed backed to me, once uttered by this tall, handsome grand old man wearing a flat cap and a regal overcoat, "Gentleman, so you have come on your Rolls Royce." I had visited their house in Karan Nagar on an old black Atlas cycle.

I couldn't help but thank my mom, that she had shown maturity and rightly advised my grandfather not to take a chance and leave early to Jammu, although she had also promised him that it was a matter of few months and normalcy would return.

However, the seasonal visit of grandfather to Jammu became a permanent one. I was always keen for him to ask me his two favourite questions again, but in vain.

It has been a decade now since my grandfather passed away. I have dreams about him quite often and wake up with moist eyes, a strange sensation in my gut and sense of an unfinished story.