Raindrops and Memories

July 2019 Mumbai, the heavens wept on the day of my father's funeral. The heavy rain mirrored the sorrow of my family. As I stood under the grey skies, along with my dear mother, my sister and our husbands and kids, I couldn't help but remember the joyful days we spent with our father, a simple government employee, the famous Konkani writer and devoted family man- Our dear Deda.

My memories drifted back to our childhood, where my elder sister and me grew up in a modest home. Despite of financial constraints, we were rich in love and laughter. Our mother, a housewife with a heart as warm as her freshly steamed Idlis, was the anchor of our family, while our father brought magic into our lives with his immense knowledge in music, literature and politics

One of my fondest memories was of deda pretending to be an elephant. He would scoop me up in his arms, making a deep, rumbling sound and carried me in his shoulders to my bed. His sturdy arms, lifting me with the gentle strength of an elephant's trunk, made me feel safe and cherished. The thrill of such imaginative games, shared with my sister, was unmatched.

Evenings were special when Deda returned from work. He had a fixed time of return ; 7pm... and there was a particular way he rang the door bell. He sometimes had a surprise for his children. The simple joy of samosas, bhajias or boondi laddoos which he bought from our favorite snack shop named "Triupti" from Andheri station   made our hearts race with excitement. 

Those days my mother would spray mosquito repellent, which in those days was a strong-smelling product called 'Flit'. To keep us safe and out of the way, my father would build a tent out of bedsheets, where my sister and I would play imaginary kitchen games. We stayed inside the tent until our parents told us it was safe to come out. The most fun part was serving our imaginary food to our parents. My mother would pretend to eat the "food" and even let out a big, playful burp, much to our amusement. My father would look at her with admiration, adding to the joy of the moment. These playful and loving interactions turned a mundane chore into a cherished family memory.

Family trips to our native village were magical adventures. Plucking cashews, mangoes, kokum fruit, drinking fresh toddy, the laughter around the grandparents, and the stories of our parents' childhood were no less than a fantasy that we as kids would always treasure. Our parents with their creativity, humor and love made these trips even more memorable.

Deda taught me to be spiritual than religious. Furthermore, he instilled in me the importance of respecting all beliefs and faiths, recognizing that each path has its own significance and value. I am very proud to be grown in an environment wherein there was no religion hierarchy taught to us, on who is the best and who is not.   

From listening to "Saturday Night Fever" on the radio to watching "Chayageeth" and "Chithrahar," through him we developed the fondness for old English and Hindi songs. My favorite pastime was watching the Discovery Channel with him, sharing in the wonder of the natural world. Through these moments, he shaped my appreciation for music and the world around us.

Deda was an avid reader of both fiction and nonfiction, and he introduced me to my first novels as a teenager—"Mistress of Merlyn" by Victoria Holt and "Coffin of Hongkong" by James Hardy Chase. Deda was exceptional at narrating stories he read, bringing them to life with his vivid descriptions and expressive storytelling. I have a particular memory of him narrating a story that gave me nightmares for a long time. It was about a happy couple. The lady leaves to visit her parents' house for a few days. During heavy rains, there is a knock at the door. A fully drenched, beautiful girl stands at the door, asking for help. He is reluctant but eventually goes to get a towel to help her. As he does, she enters the house. A series of events unfold, and much later—but just in time—he realizes that she is a vampire. And my best part was how he ultimately wins and gets rid of her for good. 

It sounds funny now, but the way Deda narrated it, with all his expressions and intensity, made it heart-pounding and much scarier than when I read it myself in later years.

As years passed, Deda's health declined due to cancer. The disease was cruel, but he bore it with a smile and courage that left us his family in awe. Even in his weakest moments, he never showed us his pain. His resilience was a testament to his inner strength. He truly is the strongest man I ever know.

Standing by his grave, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. Deda had taught me that strength wasn't about physical prowess but about enduring life's trials with grace and love. He had shown us the true meaning of heroism through his unyielding spirit and the way he embraced life's simple joys.

As the rain continued to fall, we as a family held close, hoping to pass on the legacy of love and strength our father had gifted us to our little ones. The storm outside was a reflection of the sorrow within, but it also washed away the tears, leaving behind the warm, cherished memories of Deda our true hero.

-Sharon Lasrado