Goodbye Bombay Tatha

After spending 10 days in a coma, my grandfather’s heart finally gave up on him. He died five minutes to midnight on April 13. If he’d hung on five minutes more, it would have been my grandmother’s birthday. He was 86.

I had no idea he was so well known and respected, until I was at a friend’s house some years back and her grandfather totally perked up when I mentioned my grandfather’s name. “

You’re Mr. K. Ramachandran’s granddaughter?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Oh he is the Steel Man of India!” he said admiringly.

Steel Man of India or not, he was simply Bombay Tatha to us, because he was the much-loved grandfather who lived in Bombay (now Mumbai). Summer holidays during my childhood meant heading to Bombay, to my grandparents’ house, with my sister and mom. Dad, a chartered accountant by profession, would never come since April-May-June was invariably his busiest time work-wise.

We’d spend two whole months playing with my cousins and assorted building kids our age, while mom would catch up with old college friends, shop and relax in her parents’ home.

I remember my Bombay Tatha then as a powerful, authoritative figure, who enjoyed clipping interesting or relevant articles from the newspaper every morning and filing it away or sending it to someone who needed to read it. He would get very upset if any of the neighborhood cats - Chellam Paati (my grandmother) loved to rescue - so much as got on the couch!

Many years later, when I was all grown up and working in Bombay as a writer, living on my own in a small apartment in Four Bungalows, Andheri, a suburb of Bombay, Bombay Tatha took the time and effort to visit me one day. Due to the traffic it took him two whole hours to get there. I was on the third floor with no elevator. Bombay Tatha was too weak even then to negotiate all those stairs. So we sat in the backseat of his car and spoke at length. I brought down some snacks and drinks and we had a nice time talking. He seemed proud of the fact I was making it on my own.

In August 2003, a few days before I was all set to head to the US for graduate school, Paati died. Bombay Tatha was heartbroken. He’d been married to her for a lifetime. Now he would have to learn to live without her.

At my wedding, he helped arrange a whole lot of things, including the venue and the caterers and at the ceremony itself he was the person in charge of all the change. He sat on the stage with us and the priests, dutifully handing all the coins and notes whenever asked, as part of the ceremonial rituals.

He approved of my husband and said I had made a good choice. That meant a lot to me.

Since then, Bombay Tatha has seen his first born die due to cancer, and his youngest (my mother) lose her husband. The deaths affected him profoundly and weakened his already frail heart.

Living with my mother the past year, he’s been in and out of hospitals a lot for a while now. The doctor’s called it, “Living on borrowed time.”

His failing health frustrated him, because his mind was as sharp as ever. “My body is refusing to keep up with my mind,” he said to me on the phone one day. And that was the problem.

I will miss my Bombay Tatha. I’m sorry I wasn’t around in India to participate in his last rites. I hope he’s reached a happy, serene place, wherever he is now.