The Grandpa
1 — The Killer Jackfruit
Bahu spoke in bits and pieces, a scattered mosaic of thoughts people pieced together to make sense of his words. He was the Man Friday and an indispensable anchor of Adam’s House. On a monsoon day filled with the scent of rain, Bahu came running to Adam.
“Your grandpa…jackfruit… gone,” Bahu announced to Adam. Bahu’s cryptic message confused Adam who was playing cricket with Anish, Bahu’s son, in the nearby playground. Adam didn’t lend Bahu’s words much weight, accustomed as he was to Bahu’s frequent bluffs.
“Grandpa…gone!” Bahu repeated, his cheeks glistening with tears. Adam, Anish, and Bahu sprinted across the verdant banana plantations towards the scene. Lying on the dew-laden earth, moistened by the early morning rain, was Grandpa. His partially unbuttoned shirt revealed a gray, weathered chest. Nearby lay a large, ripe jackfruit, an eerie presence.
“That thing took your Grandpa,” Anish said, his accusing finger pointed at the Jackfruit. As Bahu solemnly nodded, Adam struck it with a defiant kick — a hero vanquishing the villain.
“Let’s remove both the victim and the perpetrator. We’ll handle this,” Adam proclaimed. Bahu lifted Grandpa’s body, his hands covered with a torn thorth to preserve potential fingerprints. They moved both Grandpa and the jackfruit to Adam’s empty house, his parents yet to return home. This gave Adam ample time to contemplate his next move. The gravity of the situation didn’t overwhelm his ten-year-old brain.
“Bahukka, you arrange for the funeral,” Adam instructed Bahu. “We will handle everything else”.
Adam and Anish transferred Grandpa to Adam’s bed. They covered him up to his chin with a blanket, turned on the ceiling fan, and Grandpa looked like he was indulging in an afternoon nap. It was then that a profound sadness lodged itself in Adam’s chest. Grandpa, his source of toys, chocolates, and lullabies, was no more. The harsh reality began to gnaw at him, leaving a void.
As a toddler, Adam loved cars. His Grandpa would bring him miniature versions. He told him stories of the djinn, mythical creatures from Islamic folklore. The boundary between fantasy and reality blurred in these tales. In one story, Grandpa himself was the protagonist, and a djinn approached him at night. The eerie entity was dispatched with a swift knife stroke and a recitation of Fatiha. Grandpa’s stories had always been an enchanting part of Adam’s life.
“I’ll miss Grandpa’s stories,” Adam confessed to Anish.
“Your Grandpa was a kind man. He would always gift me crisp currency notes every Eid. I’ll miss that too,” replied Anish. Adam looked away, lost in thought.
“Did your Grandpa have any last wish?” Anish asked.
Adam recalled reading about the last wishes. He wondered if Grandpa had any such desires. Anish’s suggestion of a posthumous final wish sparked a search in Grandpa’s room. They unearthed a dusty diary, its entries dating back to his early sixties.
A passage from November 12, 1989, read, “Allah! Today, you gifted me my first grandchild, Adam. I have only one last wish now — to have a proper burial and to rest in Jannatul Firdaus.”
“Great! He did have a final wish. A proper burial!” Anish exclaimed. Then he reminded Adam of his obligation as Grandpa’s only grandson to fulfil his wish.
Adam was unsure what a ‘proper burial’ really meant. He had attended family funerals before. The most recent was his Great-Aunt’s, a hushed gathering marked by recitations of the Quran. He recollected his discomfort during the solemn ceremony, his escape to Devdasan’s store for a forbidden treat, and his guilt for not joining the funeral procession. The memory popped up a question he asked Anish, “What is a proper burial?”
Anish pondered and replied, “I’ve seen it in movies. Great people receive state funerals with gun salutes.” This grand image intrigued Adam.
Was my Grandpa a great man? Adam thought.
This forced Adam to reassess his image of Grandpa. At home, Grandpa had been a notorious miser, a penny-pincher scrutinising every rupee and every grain of coffee. Adam recollected a severe dispute between his grandparents over grocery expenses that had escalated into a physical altercation. He struggled with reconciling this image of Grandpa with the kind, generous man in Anish’s account.
His mind teetered on the edge of a long-ago memory, a fierce rift between his grandparents over something as trivial as an excess purchase of coconut oil. Grandpa’s temper had flared dangerously, his hand striking out to slap his grandmother in an act of unthinking rage. She responded with an unexpected punch of her own, only to be hit again. The aftermath was a scene of harrowing despair, his grandmother weeping inconsolably and then making a heart-rending attempt to end her life with a strip of cloth anchored to the ceiling fan.
Adam vividly remembered his father’s desperate kicks against the locked door and the strangled relief when they finally managed to pry her from the clutches of impending death. In those moments, Adam grappled with a question that gnawed at him: how could a man who had brought his wife to the brink of suicide be considered great? Yet, he reminded himself, speaking ill of the dead was a taboo. Grandfather was gone, and any dark musings served no purpose.
In an attempt to balance the scales of his memory, Adam dwelled on the brighter aspects of his grandfather. The man had been a master storyteller, his tales filling their home with magic and wonder. He had breathed life back into Adam’s damaged toys and had often soothed him to sleep with tender lullabies. When he had undergone the discomfort of circumcision, it was his grandfather’s comforting stories and songs that eased his fear and pain. Adam found solace in recounting these memories. “He was indeed a flawed yet remarkable man, deserving of a dignified farewell,” he reaffirmed quietly.
2 — The Plan
“We cannot possibly take his whole body. Visitors will be arriving to pay their final respects to your grandfather. They may not support our plan, some may even reject it. So we’ll make his effigy” Anish told Adam. The two were making their way to Devdasan’s store with the intent to purchase a small toy gun. Anish, having raised the money needed for the burial expenses, set aside fifty rupees from his savings.
“You’re now in my debt for fifty rupees,” he reminded Adam, striding with a noticeable sense of pride. You pilfered it from my own Grandpa, Adam silently reflected.
“We’re all out of toys. It’s not the season for them,” Devdasan said to Anish, giving a small shrug.
“What’s the next step?” Anish asked Adam.
“Do you carry firecrackers?” Adam asked Devadasan.
“There might be some leftovers from last Vishu. Let me check,” Devadasan said, and he ventured into his home located behind his shop. Anish gave Adam a puzzled look. A few moments later, Devadasan reappeared, clutching a packet of firecrackers.
“Though the usual price is forty rupees, I’ll let it go for twenty,” Devadasan stated. Anish handed him two crisp ten-rupee notes, a content smile settling on his face.
3 — The Proper Burial
“Did you ditch the gun idea?” Anish asked Adam.
For a moment, Adam stayed silent, deep in thought. Then his eyes brightened. Finally, he spoke, “We could fashion a gun out of paper!” The art of papercraft was a legacy from their grandfather, a memory of afternoons spent folding paper into myriad shapes — boats, birds, frogs, planes, and of course, guns. Had Adam known what the future held, he might have paid closer attention to the craft.
Quiet as shadows, the pair crept into Adam’s home. The house was empty save for Grandpa, seemingly in peaceful slumber in his bedroom. As they made their way to the kitchen, Adam stole a glance at the old man.
“Find the scissors. They should be on the shelf,” Adam directed, catching Anish with a mouthful of Horlicks, he replied through muffled swallows, “I’m looking.” For Anish, Horlicks was a rare delicacy, a coveted item received only on the occasion of Eid, courtesy of Adam’s grandmother.
Triumphantly, Anish retrieved the scissors from beneath the gas stove. Adam procured adhesive from his room. Through a series of intricate folds, a paper gun took form. Next came the daunting task of creating an effigy for the funeral — transporting Grandpa’s body was deemed impractical. Instead, the boys searched Grandpa’s room for suitable materials, repurposing an old pillow as the body. Draping one of Grandpa’s shirts over it, they added a solitary photo of him, pinning it in the centre.
“We need to infuse this with his essence,” declared Anish.
Puzzled, Adam asked, “What do you mean?”
“To feel like we’re truly burying him, we need something from his body,” explained Anish.
The suggestion unsettled Adam, but he conceded the validity of Anish’s point. Contemplating how to imbue the effigy with Grandpa’s presence, he dismissed the gruesome thought of using his nails and settled on Grandpa’s distinctive perfume — a blend of Arabian oudh and jasmine, used sparingly during Eid celebrations. Adam generously spritzed the effigy, the scent filling the room.
“It smells just like him,” Adam stated, satisfaction lighting up his face.
“But have you ever used this perfume?” Anish was curious.
“Many times!”
“Well then, it’s not unique to your Grandpa,” Anish countered, suggesting a more shocking alternative: “Maybe we could use his blood!”
“I’m no butcher!” Adam protested, but he realised the grim logic in Anish’s proposal. He procured a safety pin and, with Anish’s help, carefully pricked Grandpa’s thumb. Collecting the crimson droplets, he smeared them over the effigy.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa. I’m just aiding your grandson,” Anish whispered, casting an unsure glance towards Adam, who was gripped with guilt. Uncertainty flickered in Adam’s mind, “Will Anish bear the brunt of punishment if we’re discovered? Is he scheming to sidestep responsibility? Will Grandpa’s ghost haunt my dreams?”
“Whatever happens, we’re in this together,” he reassured Anish, clutching the effigy as they headed to the backyard’s furthest corner. There, under a threateningly overcast sky, Anish hurriedly dug a shallow grave. Adam whispered a prayer for Grandpa, tears mingling with the imminent rain. They lowered the makeshift body, and Anish recited religious verses he barely understood. Adam discharged the paper gun, synchronising its motion with the ignition of firecrackers — a makeshift salute. With solemn reverence, they covered the grave with moist soil. Using a granite slab, Adam etched Grandpa’s name and death date, unable to fill in his birth date. After positioning the makeshift headstone, they bowed their heads and whispered their final prayer:
“Oh Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him.
Provide him with an abode better than home,
Shield him from the punishments of the grave
And the torments of hellfire.
Guide him to your paradise.
Amen!”
4 — The Jackfruit’s Death!
The sky wept a soft drizzle as they concluded the funeral rites.
“Now we’ll deal with the murderer!” Adam declared, his voice stoked by the flame of retribution. Their late grandfather’s killer — The Jackfruit — had been stowed away in the kitchen. Their legs scampered towards the kitchen, as swift as lightning.
“What? The jackfruit…it’s vanished!” Adam gasped, his voice brimming with disbelief.
“Impossible,” retorted Anish, echoing his shock.
Suddenly, a ruckus from the front yard pierced the silence. “Let’s take a look,” suggested Adam, running towards the noise. Anish shadowed him. For an instant, Adam questioned the reality of what he saw. His grandfather — alive and kicking — stood in the yard, expertly disassembling the jackfruit.
“Adam, where did you go? I seem to have dozed off. Care for a piece of this delicious jackfruit?” Grandpa asked, the edges of his mouth crinkling into a smile. From the house, the sound of a body hitting the floor echoed. It was Anish. Outside, the drizzle escalated into a frenzied storm. Illuminated by a streak of lightning, Adam watched his Grandpa amble towards him, proffering a piece of freshly carved jackfruit. His vision blurred.
“Come, my dear, taste this,” Grandpa’s voice rumbled, and fused with the symphony of the thunder.