My grandfather was a name people recognized—a familiar figure in the public eye. But to me, he wasn’t the man from newspapers or television. He was simply my grandpa—the man whose world revolved around me.
He wasn’t defined by titles or achievements. To me, he was a tall, handsome man with kind eyes and a heart so full of love that it overflowed every time he looked at me. He had this beautiful habit of making me feel like the most special person in the room. I still remember our trips to departmental stores. With his warm smile, he would say, “Jo marzi hai, le lo”—“Take whatever you want.” I’d dart around, wide-eyed and excited, filling the cart with color pencils, chart papers, drawing books, my favorite chewing gums, and chocolates. He never said no. It wasn’t about the things I chose; it was about the joy he saw in my eyes as I filled the cart.
I was the son of his daughter—the one closest to his heart. Maybe that’s why he loved me with such depth and intensity. His love wasn’t loud or grand—it was simple, pure, and unwavering.
But life, in its cruel way, gives and takes without warning.
In 2019, cancer entered our lives like an uninvited storm. At the same time, the world was shutting down—COVID had begun its merciless spread. Lockdowns started, flights stopped, life paused, and in the middle of it all, cancer knocked on our door. The diagnosis was shattering. I was too young to fully grasp its weight, but I saw it in my mother’s eyes—the fear, the helplessness.
My grandfather, who had always stood tall and strong, suddenly found himself caught in endless cycles of doctor visits, surgeries, treatments, and pain. Yet, he bore it all with a quiet strength I still can’t fully comprehend.
By February 2022, his body had grown frail. I remember seeing him again and feeling torn—between the tall, witty man I had always known and the fragile figure cancer had left behind. His once neatly trimmed beard had grown long and white, and for a moment, I could hardly recognize him.
But even then, his love for me hadn’t changed. When my mother visited him in the hospital, through labored breaths, in front of some relatives gathered around his bed, he told her, “You have a brilliant and intelligent son.” My heart swelled when my mom shared those words with me.
During one of our video calls, he looked at me through tired eyes, but I could still see the pride shining through. I told him I was now in 4th grade. His voice was soft, broken, but he replied in English—just like he used to when I was younger. At that moment, he wasn’t just a patient in a hospital bed—he was my Grandpa again.
I remember visiting the hospital with my mom, sitting beside him, holding his frail hand, and reciting Quranic surahs I had memorized, whispering prayers for his recovery. I wanted a miracle. I wanted more time.
When he was finally discharged, my mother brought him home. It was winter—February cold—and our house transformed into a sanctuary of care. My mother became his world. She barely slept, staying by his side through long, restless nights. I’d see her quietly adjusting his blankets, holding his hand, administering medicines, and wiping tears she thought no one saw.
I saw her break—again and again—as her father, her hero, slipped away before her eyes. I tried to comfort her in my small ways—sometimes by sitting silently beside her, other times by saying, “Mom, he’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” But deep down, we both knew.
Despite his weakening body, my grandfather’s mind remained sharp. He responded slowly, but his answers were precise. Even in his frailty, he corrected anyone who got details wrong. It was like he was clinging to every last piece of himself.
Then, one cold afternoon, his condition worsened. He was rushed to the hospital. The house felt heavy, like it too sensed the inevitable. And that evening, he passed away.
It was a Friday.
I was at home, waiting, thinking my mother was still at the hospital with him. But when she returned late into the night, her pale face and red eyes told me everything. She didn’t say much—just enough.“Dad is no more. We buried him earlier tonight.”
I sat there, blank. It felt surreal, like the world had momentarily stopped. My eyes drifted to a shelf, and there they were—his spectacles, the ones he always wore. I picked them up, my hands trembling, and handed them to my mother. “Mom, these belong to Dad.”
Those spectacles still sit quietly on the shelf, untouched, alongside his insulin pen. Two ordinary objects, now heavy with meaning—silent witnesses to a life lived and a love that lingers.
Today marks his death anniversary.
I often wonder if he sees us—if he knows how much my mother misses him. Not a single day passes without his name being spoken or a memory surfacing. My mother dreams of him often. She talks about him, sometimes smiling, sometimes fighting back tears. Her heart carries a weight that time can’t seem to lighten.
And if he’s listening, wherever he is, I want him to know:
“Grandpa, Mom misses you deeply, carrying your love in every part of her being. And I still remember you as I did as a child—the tall, strong man who loved me endlessly. I hope you’re at peace, reunited with Grandma. You still live on here, in our home, in our hearts, and in every quiet moment we think of you.
Love isn’t measured by time but by the spaces it leaves behind. And you, Grandpa, left a space so vast it can never truly be filled, leaving behind love, wisdom, and a warmth that still lingers”.
And today, as I hold your spectacles in my hands, I feel your presence—gentle, proud, and everlasting.
- The writer is a student of 6th standard.
