I have never understood the reason why my father is so obsessively fond of my grandfather. We called our grandfather ‘Anna’, which means the eldest in the family. His only accomplishment apart from bringing up four daughters and three sons was that he managed to not sell our ancestral land. Anna was a profound wrestler and was a renowned bodybuilder—something which has been a major reason why Papa loves and respects him for.

Anna’s death has been a mystery to all of us. He died on 6th May 1996 while he was 72. I shared a 14-year timeline with him and could not stop recollecting his visits at our small, one-bedroom home in Airoli, Navi Mumbai. He wore a pink turban whenever he went out. During his era, in our village, a pink turban was a symbol of pride and dignity. In the 90s, I remember when he visited our home in Mumbai, the pink turban was something I disliked. While he walked on the city streets, he was the centre of attention to the passersby. I hardly remember when I had walked with him together on the street.

Anna was always financially dependent on Papa. On the contrary, Papa’s selfless pride for Anna fails to explain to me why he till date regards him as an epitome of self-respect. How can a person who is not able to manage his own finances be a symbol of respectfulness? My young mind was unable to understand these things.

They say when you start judging people, you never find time to love them—the relationship of my Papa with his father has been a living example of this. The living memories of Anna have been a source of inspiration to Papa till date. I tangibly saw him realising it when our new house at Madha was named after Anna: Vitthal Smruti. The memories of a person are truly built upon how you perceive the person. When the perception is coated with pure love, you fail to remember his negatives.

I, being his grandchild, failed to find a reason why I could love Anna. Hence, the memories that I had built up as a child were quite contrary to Papa’s. I remember him as a pink turban of embarrassment, a smile with betel nut stains, a person who constantly wrote letters to Papa to seek money orders, a man who failed to provide education to his daughters, and prominently someone who kicked his wife in the stomach over domestic quarrels—these memories cannot stop a young boy in his 90s from judging his grandfather.

Anna never bought anything for his grandchildren for a simple reason: that he never had money. Whenever he had it, he got a hole in his pocket from draining the money on the gambling table or at the cash counter of the bar. I remember my mother probing him once on why he never got anything for his grandchildren. That day he bought us a dozen bananas—the only thing I could remember he got for me.

Anna never mingled out or played with me. I remember when I tried to play hide-and-seek with him at our Mumbai home. I could easily fit inside the steel water tank; I remember it as my favourite hiding place. The water tank had a lid, and I was almost unsearchable when I hid myself in it.

Anna knew about it.

One day, while he realised that I was hiding inside the tank, he thought of having some fun with me. Anna having fun with me? This was unusual, unexpected, uninvited, and was soon turning to be unnatural. I realised that Anna sat on the lid, making the water tank inside a dark trap filled with vacuum—no oxygen and no exit.

I stayed hitting the lid from inside with my tender hands, relying on the mercy of Anna’s whim. He laughed and kept laughing while hearing the punches from the empty water tank. A few moments of wait passed by as I started to feel unconscious. I do not remember when I had the feeling of becoming unconscious; that day, I neared it. Dark moments of wait expanded, making each passing second feel like hours.

Anna got up, and I rushed out my nose, longing for a lungful of air. I regained myself. I watched Anna throwing the betel nut smile at me. This time, I wasn’t judging him. It was sheer hate.

That day, I decided never to play with grandfathers.

This is an incident from the year 1986, a time when I was a child just beginning to explore my fascination with the Mumbai railways. Our home in Kalyan was only about a fifteen-minute walk from the station, and that proximity often made it the backdrop of my early childhood memories. I don’t clearly recollect why Papa had taken me to the Kalyan Railway Station that day, but I vividly remember one thing — if things had gone terribly wrong, my life could have taken a completely different turn.

Papa, once a high school teacher, had the gift of words. He was endlessly talkative with everyone he met, always full of stories. That day was no different. As we stood on the sparsely crowded platform, a friend or an acquaintance of his happened to bump into us. I stood beside Papa, holding his finger, while their conversation stretched on. Meanwhile, I became lost in the world unfolding before me — trains arriving, halting, leaving; people boarding and alighting; the rhythmic sounds of metal on metal creating a hypnotic "dropper" effect that fascinated my young ears.

At some point — I don’t recall exactly when — I let go of Papa’s finger. Something about the train that had halted at the platform drew me in. Perhaps it was the thrill of stepping into a local train coach, the challenge of finding a spot in a crowded compartment, or the sheer joy of standing at the window, gripping the grill and watching the world blur past.

Being a child in Mumbai’s bustling trains had its privileges. Adults would instinctively make way, guiding me toward the window — the best place in the world, I thought. But what felt like a magical moment to me was, on the other side of that window, the beginning of a nightmare.

Papa, suddenly realizing I was no longer by his side, panicked. He searched the platform, the bookstalls, asked strangers — all in vain. His friend joined the search too. Seconds ticked by, but in those moments, fear consumed him. The train I had unknowingly boarded began to move. That’s when Papa, driven by instinct and love, made a life-saving guess. He knew me. He knew my obsession with the window seat. He trusted that knowledge. As the train picked up speed, Papa started running alongside it, his eyes scanning coach after coach. With superhuman effort, he boarded a moving compartment. To me, he was nothing short of Superman.

Determined, drenched in sweat, and with unwavering focus, Papa moved from coach to coach, asking, searching, hoping. At each station — Dombivli, Diva, Kalwa, Thane, Mulund, Kanjurmarg — he got off and boarded a new coach, his eyes relentlessly seeking me. The train was heading toward Victoria Terminus, and the chase continued. Finally, at Ghatkopar station, Papa boarded yet another coach — and there I was. Standing by the window, holding the pane, blissfully unaware of the chaos I had caused. When he saw me, he pushed through the crowd and grabbed me, holding me as though he'd found his entire world again.

I have only a faint memory of his emotions that day. But I know he must’ve been overwhelmed — with relief, with love, with fear that finally gave way to gratitude.

Ironically, I was clueless. I didn’t even realize I had been lost. Back then, there were no mobile phones, no GPS trackers, no loudspeaker announcements for missing children. But I always believed one thing: Papa was behind me, with me — my superhero who would never let me fall.

And that day, he proved it.