I looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth. I frowned, my mind thinking of that one question that seemed to evade answers.
‘Who taught me how to brush? Who was the person who helped me while I grew up?’
My parents tell me that I grew up by myself. I didn’t need anyone’s help. I seemed to entertain myself. I was a very aloof toddler who shut out the outside world. That’s what my parents always tell me.
Well, I was a 15 years old now still searching the answer to my 8 year old question. I most definitely do not brush like my mom. She starts from the right whereas I start from the left. And, she never, ever, forgets to floss whereas I detest the idea of flossing. I mean, what if my teeth fell out? My dad, he starts from the left, but from the inner surface to the outer, whereas I start from the outer to the inner. My dad brushes so vigorously, sometimes he spits out blood along with toothpaste foam. My mom too brushes fast, but not as vigorously as my dad. Me, I just go at my own sweet pace.
No matter what my parents tell me, I believe, for I know, that there was someone who helped with my brushing, with my toilet, with my food, almost everything that defined my tastes, my preferences and my way of doing things. More often than not, I’ve heard my dad say, “Just like his grandpa.” I don’t know why my mom doesn’t know my dad’s dad.
“Steve!” my mom called out. “How long will you brush? Come help us, slowcoach!”
I spit out my foam, sighing. Why can’t a person brush in peace? I decided to at least take my time with my face when my mom shouted out, “We’re going to go through the albums now. So you better come fast.”
All hopes of a peaceful brush and wash time washed away, I hurried downstairs without bothering to dry my face.
We were shifting out of my dad’s ancestral home to an apartment in the city. We had decided to keep only a few personal things with us, especially photos.
So we were all three going through the photo albums, when we came to an old, dusty album. My mom picked it up, opened the first page and then quickly shut it. She was about to put it away when I took the album from her hands. I knew I had seen someone and I wanted to be sure it was the same person I thought I had seen.
It was the photo of an old man, lean and tall, with almost fading white hair and a cheery smile on his face. Of course I remember him! I was very excited. My mom was on my right and my dad was on my left. So, I didn’t think jumping on the couch was a good idea.
“Who’s this?” I asked and both my parents turned to look. Immediately, I saw my dad’s eyes well up with tears. My mom frowned at me.
My dad answered, “That’s your granddad, my pappy.”
Now I understood the reason for my parent’s expressions. After the death of my granddad, dad had been so heartbroken that mom had stowed away all the photos of him that had hung around the house. Then my mom had picked up my dad’s broken pieces and built him back to the man he had once been.
“I remember him!” I said, still pointing to the photo. My dad was dumbstruck.
My mom immediately took out another album and said, “Oh, look, Steve’s visit to the zoo.”
I continued, encouraged by my dad’s ‘go-on’ look. “I’ve always told you that someone helped as a toddler. Someone who understood my cooing sounds someone who talked to me. Well, it was grand dad. It was this man. I know because I remember his face very well. He has this mole on his shoulder blade, the size of a penny.” My dad got up, breathing hard, pacing the room, his hands criss-crossed over his head. My mom still didn’t believe me.
So I continued, “He loves to be called Robbie. His favorite music is jazz, especially the Glen Miller songs. He thought that Adolf Hitler was a very good leader, though he led people the wrong way.” I stopped. My mom had turned pale and so had my dad.
“How do you know this?” my mom asked me.
Still not understanding, I said, “I told you, right? Grand dad told me all those things. That’s how.”
She said, “But, darling, I myself have not met him. Then how could you have?”
“Eh?” I was more than bewildered by now. “Grand dad died after my birth, right?”
“Your granddad died before my marriage with your mom.” It was my dad. “Five years before your mom and I married.”
Now it was my turn to be shocked. “He was a very warm soul.” was all I could say.
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