Lessons from my Grandfather

My grandfather passed away last Wednesday. I was very close to him growing up, and he shaped a lot of my worldview. He is the reason I don't drink, smoke, or have any vices. Whatever I am, and whatever I hope to be, is largely thanks to him.

So I want everyone to know a little bit about him.

Dr. Pyda Vijaya Sanyasi Rao was born in Visakhapatnam (Vizag) on February 1, 1949. His father was a well-respected police officer and his mother a homemaker. As a youngster, he watched a lot of James Bond movies. He loved the character and identified with him throughout his life. But although he had the courage and resilience of Mr. Bond, unlike the MI6 agent, my granddad's world revolved around his family.

By the time my sister and I were born, he had already retired from his position as an accounts officer at Hindustan Zinc Limited, which meant, I suppose, that he had all the time in the world to dedicate to what he loved most: his family. He would wake up early every weekday to drop us off at school and pick us up in the afternoon. Even when there were chauffeurs who could drive us, he still came along because he knew we'd feel warmer and more comfortable in his presence.

My granddad wasn't like most men. He never tried to assert his masculinity, never raised his voice, and was never egotistical. He had a calm, endearing demeanor, always smiling and wanting to make everyone around him smile. He was soft, tender, nurturing, and always (I mean every single time) put his family first.

Dr. Rao was a gentleman. He always dressed like one. Clean shirts and trousers, impeccably ironed and neatly tucked in, his hair oiled and combed, a handkerchief in one of his side pockets, and a pocket comb to go with it. He liked to put talcum powder on his face because it made him feel fresh. It was all the makeup he knew. Well, that and copious amounts of foundation he would apply on special occasions.

He looked much younger than he actually was, perhaps because he was always smiling. Even at sixty, he used to look like he was in his early forties. Everyone at school knew to expect a golden Honda City at 1:30 PM each afternoon. Once in a while, somebody would ask me if I was waiting for my father, and I'd tell them, "He's my grandfather!"

He drove slow and steady. Getting from point A to point B in Indian traffic can be quite adventurous, but he liked to be careful. To drive in India, you need to "have a thousand eyes in all directions," as he used to say. Every so often, we used to stop at some store on the way back home to buy snacks. Sometimes Lays, sometimes chocolates, sometimes ice cream. He'd buy them for us with delight, occasionally giving us a bigger budget to binge on snacks. The shopkeepers knew us and always seemed to enjoy seeing the three of us together.

He was unmistakable. Maybe it was the way he dressed or the way he carried himself. There was something so distinct about him that you could easily spot him in a crowd of hundreds.

Even though he looked quite sophisticated, my granddad didn't splurge money on things he didn't need. Like expensive pens, for example. He would just write with regular ones until he used up every last drop of ink in them.

Or phones too. He deeply admired technology -- James Bond had very cool gadgets, after all -- yet he refused to get a smartphone for years, regardless of how much I implored him. For many years, he used an inexpensive feature phone that could call and text with 2G GSM, had no multimedia, and did nothing else. He was perfectly content with it till the day it stopped working and there was nothing I could do to fix it. These rules were only for himself, though. He'd still buy anything his family wanted.

He was happy with very little for himself, but he was never satisfied with doing nothing.

Family wasn't my granddad's entire world. He loved films and always wanted to make a movie or a TV series. I sometimes wonder if this is where my knack for storytelling comes from. So after retirement, he began a PhD in Filmography at Andhra University, making many connections in the Telugu film industry along the way. He met directors, interviewed famous actors, and was friends with some producers.

He didn't have to pursue it. He could have enjoyed his retirement for decades to come. But he had a youthful spirit. Not once in his life did he accept that he was getting old. As a grandson, I am proud to have seen him receive two gold medals from two different Governors of the state over the years. High standards for us to follow.

I often tell people I come from a family of strong, independent women. Now that I think about it, I see how much he enabled them to be like that. He was proud of his kids, but he carried some special pride in my mum. She was the oldest of his children, quite successful academically, and became a doctor. In India, it's common for people in certain professions -- like doctors, lawyers, and military personnel -- to have badges on their vehicles. Whenever he drove her car, he'd be thrilled to drive a vehicle with a doctor's badge on it. And for as long as I can remember, he wore the same watch she got him every single day.

I spent a lot of my early teenage years on my phone, learning programming languages and experimenting with different technologies. The adults around me worried that I was either constantly playing video games or simply addicted to the device. My granddad was the only one who would come up to me and ask, "What are you inventing today?" I'd explain it to him even though he didn't understand a single word of what I was saying.

By 11th and 12th grade, I was less reliant on him and had some transport arranged to get to school and back. But one day, he picked me up. I sat next to him feeling low, with the soul sucked out of my being. I was extremely unhappy at my coaching institute as my scores kept slipping.

"Do you know why I never ask you how you're doing on your tests?" he said.

"No, why?" I inquired.

"Because everyone is always asking you about your academics, I don't want to add to that pressure. I'll be the one cheering you for everything outside of your studies. Everyone should be jolly, everything will work out just fine. I'd want to ask you to play badminton in the living room like we used to when you were younger. But I know you're busy. We should do that if you have time though, just call me," he replied with a smile.

(Our living room was large enough for such activities. This dialogue happened in Telugu, I tried my best to translate it to English while keeping the essence of the conversation intact.)

In what felt like a really dark tunnel with no end in sight, I felt seen. I think soon after, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's. I knew enough about neuroscience from the internet to understand what it meant and where it was going. As time went on, it started to affect him more and more.

In the years that followed, my granddad gradually became frail. Even as his condition progressed, he stayed true to who he was. He still refused to accept that he was getting old and wanted to be as active as he possibly could. And although he was starting to lose track of what was going on, he still had the same pleasant, funny, cheerful persona as always. If he was having trouble getting up from a chair, he'd say, "I'm James Bond," and still get up by himself anyway.

When I went to see him last winter, he was hallucinating too often. He told me he kept seeing someone encroaching into our house, but they always disappeared before anyone else could see them. However, he insisted that it was not magic, just really clever technology. How did the technology work? He did not know. But he wanted to get to the bottom of it because nobody would believe him otherwise.

Typical James Bond behavior.

As remarkable as Agent 007 was on the screens, my grandfather was in real life. At the hospital, when many of his systems went into disarray, he still made it through. What we witnessed over those last couple of weeks was, in many ways, a medical miracle. He would be partially conscious at brief intervals, and whenever he was, we got another chance to tell him the things we wanted to tell him.

I told him I am working on great technology, that I drive slow and steady now, that I eat well and exercise regularly, that we love him, and that he is the greatest grandfather in the world. We assured him that we would all be alright. Even then, he was still thinking about us. It was as though all those years of caring for his family had become part of him, much deeper than conscious thought. Through all the pain, my granddad still managed to smile.

In his last few days, I cried till my throat dried up and my eyes turned red. I went to bed almost every night with tears in my eyes, praying for him to be fine. I knew that by the time I woke up, the world would keep functioning normally, just as it does every day. But my world might never be the same again. I did not know if I could ever be happy again, because if I allowed myself, wouldn't it mean that I forgot him?

But that is the opposite of what he would want. He wanted us all to be happy. He always treated us like children. Even when I was 21 and all grown up, he'd tell my sister to be nice to me because I was the youngest in the house (like I was a baby). At 23, he was still playful with me in every interaction.

We remember the stories he used to tell us, like how he cared for his little brother when they were young, cycling him across the city, or all of his naughty shenanigans.

He never explicitly taught us his values, never told us to be a certain way or asked for something. He just walked the walk.

He saw all people as one, for example. Until age 10, I had no idea that the concept of religion existed, that many held onto really strong opinions and often clashed with each other. I thought the only differences humans had were cultural. To this day, I strive to bring people from diverse backgrounds and vantage points together, putting differences aside and instead focusing on what we all have in common.

I still carry a handkerchief in my pocket everywhere I go. And I don't watch cricket because he never watched it.

My granddad never finished writing the screenplay for the TV series he wanted to make. From what I remember him telling me, it was a story about family and the values that hold one together. Maybe, in the end, he didn't need to finish it. Because he spent his life living it. That is the story of Dr. PVS Rao, our Thatha.