With autumn came my yearly ritual of sneaking into grandpa’s library. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that I sneak in once a year and borrow otherwise obsolete titles, it’s just always been this way, ever since I was a child. Some years he would even recommend me books and see me get frustrated over their unavailability until September dawned.
He would then, very strategically, place them in places I would find them. Grandpa had always been a mystery to almost everyone in the family, and I’d like to think I knew him a bit better because I knew his books, and the stacks beside his table, and his dusty study, his love for tea, his adoration for the Victorian Era literature. Oh, and Shakespeare. Grandpa loved a good Shakespeare reference more than anything else. I knew him. Or, at least I think I did.
This year’s book heist had already happened. I was admiring the spines, tracing the gold foiling on the hardbacks with my fingers. This year he had taken out his set of In Search Of Lost Time from the attic for me. He wanted me to increase my tastes and not forever be stuck with England, “Even if it means reading translations.” I hated reading translations; I would rather learn a new language than read translated versions. He obviously knew that, but in the end, I gave in. I opened the copy of Swann’s Way; it had a dried rose in it. 
I never really talked about the little things I found in his books, but autumn is also the season of falling – I couldn’t resist.
“Grandpa, I found this in your copy of Swann’s Way. Is there a story behind this? Did grandma give it to you?” I asked, showing him the pressed and dried rose, its petals ironed by the yellowed pages of the book.
“Ah, this old thing, I had forgotten about her. She was about your age when we married each other.” Grandpa chuckled.
“What? She isn’t grandma? I know for a fact that grandma was much older than I am when you two got married,” I said, without a pause.
“She kept calling my name, but I didn't turn back,” Grandpa said with a solemn tone in his voice, his eyes focused on something distant.
“So, you marry her and you leave her, just like that?” I asked him.
“In hindsight, I do regret it. Don't tell your grandma this, but she would have been a better wife,” Grandpa whispered, as if he was letting me in on a secret.
“But seriously, tell me why you did that, and what was her name?” I pleaded.
“Azara. Azara Faiyaz Khan—an ounce kinder than the meaning of her name suggested. Like most of us, she wasn't so certain about herself. However if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that if someone needed her she would be there, almost always. She was a strong woman.”
“As I recall, I used to trip a lot when we were little. Being an emotional child, it was followed by hours of crying. With time I only got worse, my parents gave up on me but Azara stayed, even if it meant spending the entire afternoon,” Grandpa smiled.
“So, if I gather this correctly, you knew Azara from your childhood days and you still chose to leave her behind, after marrying her, Grandpa? Why?” I inquired further.
“Azara and I knew we were in love, but we never felt the need to say it. We knew that it existed somewhere between us. As soon as I turned twenty-one, I asked her father for her hand, and he said ‘About time!’ sounding relieved. A date was selected, we got married, we were happy, and so was everyone in our families. But our happiness lasted only for a handful of weeks.”
“Few weeks after the rituals were done, rumors of Partition grew only stronger. Everything was tense, people started turning on each other. Once the news became official, everything we once knew changed,” Grandpa concluded.
“That still doesn't answer my question,” I said, refusing to believe Grandpa’s decision.
“I left because I knew if I stayed it would cost us everything. At the time it felt like the right thing to do – which I was obsessed with at the time,” Grandpa said, his eyes brimming with tears. “Now it seems like a rash, immature decision, my love wasn't brave enough to face everything. There hasn’t been a single day when I didn’t think about her. She was always so lovely to me, and I just… left her.” Grandpa said, his voice trembling, as he tried his best to drown the sobs rising in his throat.
I ran my fingers on one of those flowers, it chipped a little… “love wasn’t brave enough…” in a way reverberated through my ears. I tried to understand it too… there stood my grandfather, in his vulnerable self (he was not the vulnerable kind, you know?)
I placed the chipped flower on his hand and said, “But the love stayed, hai na?” as he let a tear roll down his cheek, he folded his fist gently --he knew the flower was frail, perhaps like him, perhaps like her...took his other other hand, placed it on my head --he was validating me in some way, it was a lot of emotions, some happy, some nostalgic...all of it in that chipped rose. A faraway look in his eyes, as if he could still see Azara’s hopeful face in front of him, eagerly waiting for him to stay back, well-knowing that he can’t. But I could tell, the love stayed. Or so, I believed.
He would then, very strategically, place them in places I would find them. Grandpa had always been a mystery to almost everyone in the family, and I’d like to think I knew him a bit better because I knew his books, and the stacks beside his table, and his dusty study, his love for tea, his adoration for the Victorian Era literature. Oh, and Shakespeare. Grandpa loved a good Shakespeare reference more than anything else. I knew him. Or, at least I think I did.
This year’s book heist had already happened. I was admiring the spines, tracing the gold foiling on the hardbacks with my fingers. This year he had taken out his set of In Search Of Lost Time from the attic for me. He wanted me to increase my tastes and not forever be stuck with England, “Even if it means reading translations.” I hated reading translations; I would rather learn a new language than read translated versions. He obviously knew that, but in the end, I gave in. I opened the copy of Swann’s Way; it had a dried rose in it.
I never really talked about the little things I found in his books, but autumn is also the season of falling – I couldn’t resist.
“Grandpa, I found this in your copy of Swann’s Way. Is there a story behind this? Did grandma give it to you?” I asked, showing him the pressed and dried rose, its petals ironed by the yellowed pages of the book.
“Ah, this old thing, I had forgotten about her. She was about your age when we married each other.” Grandpa chuckled.
“What? She isn’t grandma? I know for a fact that grandma was much older than I am when you two got married,” I said, without a pause.
“She kept calling my name, but I didn't turn back,” Grandpa said with a solemn tone in his voice, his eyes focused on something distant.
“So, you marry her and you leave her, just like that?” I asked him.
“In hindsight, I do regret it. Don't tell your grandma this, but she would have been a better wife,” Grandpa whispered, as if he was letting me in on a secret.
“But seriously, tell me why you did that, and what was her name?” I pleaded.
“Azara. Azara Faiyaz Khan—an ounce kinder than the meaning of her name suggested. Like most of us, she wasn't so certain about herself. However if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that if someone needed her she would be there, almost always. She was a strong woman.”
“As I recall, I used to trip a lot when we were little. Being an emotional child, it was followed by hours of crying. With time I only got worse, my parents gave up on me but Azara stayed, even if it meant spending the entire afternoon,” Grandpa smiled.
“So, if I gather this correctly, you knew Azara from your childhood days and you still chose to leave her behind, after marrying her, Grandpa? Why?” I inquired further.
“Azara and I knew we were in love, but we never felt the need to say it. We knew that it existed somewhere between us. As soon as I turned twenty-one, I asked her father for her hand, and he said ‘About time!’ sounding relieved. A date was selected, we got married, we were happy, and so was everyone in our families. But our happiness lasted only for a handful of weeks.”
“Few weeks after the rituals were done, rumors of Partition grew only stronger. Everything was tense, people started turning on each other. Once the news became official, everything we once knew changed,” Grandpa concluded.
“That still doesn't answer my question,” I said, refusing to believe Grandpa’s decision.
“I left because I knew if I stayed it would cost us everything. At the time it felt like the right thing to do – which I was obsessed with at the time,” Grandpa said, his eyes brimming with tears. “Now it seems like a rash, immature decision, my love wasn't brave enough to face everything. There hasn’t been a single day when I didn’t think about her. She was always so lovely to me, and I just… left her.” Grandpa said, his voice trembling, as he tried his best to drown the sobs rising in his throat.
I ran my fingers on one of those flowers, it chipped a little… “love wasn’t brave enough…” in a way reverberated through my ears. I tried to understand it too… there stood my grandfather, in his vulnerable self (he was not the vulnerable kind, you know?)
I placed the chipped flower on his hand and said, “But the love stayed, hai na?” as he let a tear roll down his cheek, he folded his fist gently --he knew the flower was frail, perhaps like him, perhaps like her...took his other other hand, placed it on my head --he was validating me in some way, it was a lot of emotions, some happy, some nostalgic...all of it in that chipped rose. A faraway look in his eyes, as if he could still see Azara’s hopeful face in front of him, eagerly waiting for him to stay back, well-knowing that he can’t. But I could tell, the love stayed. Or so, I believed.