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toujours_nigel) wrote2012-05-30 02:06 pm
toujours_nigel) wrote2012-05-30 02:06 pm
(no subject)
My grandfather started having trouble breathing on Monday; he was admitted to the hospital. By Tuesday morning his systems had started shutting down--renal, respiratory, circulatory--and by afternoon he could no longer breathe on his own; they had to put him in ventilation; only his splendid heart was still struggling on. He died at 10:55 p.m. on Tuesday night; it was his birthday, he was 87. We brought his body home on Wednesday morning; we consigned him to the flames on Wednesday morning.
It is stupid to say I don't know how any of us will go on. But he was the foundation of this house and its keystone; we all always went to him in any trouble; he taught me how to think and gave me new worlds to inhabit and hold in my head; he drew beautifully without any training; he had wanted to teach literature, but his brothers--he lost his father at a very young age--thought being a doctor a more reliable job; he was 15 when WWII started, 22 when India became independent; he loved all stories and was always always hungry for more; he started on simple translations of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata after losing sight in one eye; he used to make us clothes when we were children; he loved music; he wrote poetry; he had a subtle sharp mind and a wicked sense of humour that was still never hurtful; he dabbled in astrology; he played cards; he helped us with our math; he taught me embroidery; he used to make custard for me when I was a child and turned me rice into idlis to get me to eat after school; he RP-ed Mahabharata with me when I was 3; he made me tell him the plot of the Potter novels and was invested enough to create AUs where Sirius lives; our last conversation was about the nation's policies as revealed by the census, the one before it was about Eleanor of Aquitaine; he was a tall man, broad in the shoulder and beautifully made, with long artist's hands and a domed Roman profile; he had tremendous vitality and a terrible eagerness for life.
He was 65 when I was born, and he played every game with me and told me all the stories he knew; he was ill for a very long time, he was rarely out of hospital in the last two months; his death still feels sudden, we had got into the habit of thinking he was eternal, our own personal god/genie/wise-old-man. Everyone who ever knew him loved him; he was always the model of good behaviour, and all of it sincere; he was never sly and never simple and never stood for cruelty.
What is there to say? I loved him bone and blood and breath. He is dead, I am not. What can I say or think that is a scrap of comfort?
It is stupid to say I don't know how any of us will go on. But he was the foundation of this house and its keystone; we all always went to him in any trouble; he taught me how to think and gave me new worlds to inhabit and hold in my head; he drew beautifully without any training; he had wanted to teach literature, but his brothers--he lost his father at a very young age--thought being a doctor a more reliable job; he was 15 when WWII started, 22 when India became independent; he loved all stories and was always always hungry for more; he started on simple translations of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata after losing sight in one eye; he used to make us clothes when we were children; he loved music; he wrote poetry; he had a subtle sharp mind and a wicked sense of humour that was still never hurtful; he dabbled in astrology; he played cards; he helped us with our math; he taught me embroidery; he used to make custard for me when I was a child and turned me rice into idlis to get me to eat after school; he RP-ed Mahabharata with me when I was 3; he made me tell him the plot of the Potter novels and was invested enough to create AUs where Sirius lives; our last conversation was about the nation's policies as revealed by the census, the one before it was about Eleanor of Aquitaine; he was a tall man, broad in the shoulder and beautifully made, with long artist's hands and a domed Roman profile; he had tremendous vitality and a terrible eagerness for life.
He was 65 when I was born, and he played every game with me and told me all the stories he knew; he was ill for a very long time, he was rarely out of hospital in the last two months; his death still feels sudden, we had got into the habit of thinking he was eternal, our own personal god/genie/wise-old-man. Everyone who ever knew him loved him; he was always the model of good behaviour, and all of it sincere; he was never sly and never simple and never stood for cruelty.
What is there to say? I loved him bone and blood and breath. He is dead, I am not. What can I say or think that is a scrap of comfort?
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He was, well, peculiarly Mary-Sueish, really. :)
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Thank you for your kindnesses.