Sandow dadu
Every kid should have a bald-headed grandpa with a white moustache and twinkling eyes who is a fount of stories. I had one like that. He was my mother's uncle. He spoke in a low voice as if he was giving away secrets and carried with him a whiff of mystery and adventure.
He had had many adventures. Sandow dadu had grown up in Nairobi, Kenya and, in his youth, had been a self-taught geologist who had wandered around in jungles.
We went to dinner at his house one or twice a year when we visited my paternal grandparents in Santiniketan. The houses of Santiniketan each sat in a large garden ringed with a flowering hedge. As dusk gathered around the crowns of the trees and shrubs below, the air grew cool and still and fragrant with night scents and the dimly lit houses stood far apart from each other like islands in the darkness. My mother and I would walk up the crunchy gravel path through light and shadow up to the veranda of the Sandow dadu's house.
Sandow dadu's wife was not the sort of grandma who would envelop you in a big hug and leave flour prints on your dress before rushing off to get a loaded platter of fried goodies from the kitchen. She spoke quietly in a deep voice and served a few select, tasty dishes neatly arranged on the dining table. The sparkle in her eyes showed that she was happy to see us.
After dinner, it was story-telling time. Each story began with a full disclosure. "This one has about 10%," dadu would say. By that he meant the spice added to make the story better, the fraction of it that was not entirely factual. And the stories did not disappoint. They contained a satisfying number of tigers, ghosts and humorous interludes and just the right number of unexplained occurrences to keep both me and my mother hanging on to every word.
It was not just the tales he told of his adventures that were thrilling, every thing in his house seemed to harbor a secret. In the front room dadu, the former geologist, had a large display case crammed with rocks of different shapes, sizes and colors. On one visit, he lifted the lid of the case and gave me a sparkling stone that he swore was a real diamond. I had my doubts about that stone, but I kept it anyway, for many years, in a battered metal pencil box along with other treasures.
A pair of dolls, a boy and a girl, stood on a shelf in the living room. "That boy is very mischievous," Sandow dadu would say, "he keeps running away." Sure enough, half an hour later the boy would be gone. "I guess we have to go down to the garden to find him." So we would sit quietly on a bench in the garden while dadu whispered, "He keeps flying off into the trees. If we whistle in a particular way, he might come ...Oh look, he's right here beside me, I didn't even notice him sneaking back."
Sandow dadu's own bald pate was the butt of many of his jokes. He liked to tell the story of the first gift he got from his wife after their wedding - a set of silver hairbrushes. On another occasion, the whole family had lined up to bid him farewell as he left for an overseas trip. I can picture him looking very solemn, maybe even wiping away a tear or two. "I have had a good life," he said to the assembled sisters-in-law, "There's just one regret". They were so sympathetic, so concerned. "Oh what is it?" they asked, ready to comfort and reassure. Whereupon Sandow dadu looked mournfully down at the ground and, with as much sorrow in his voice as he could muster, replied "I wasn't able to grow a single hair on my bald head."
He had had many adventures. Sandow dadu had grown up in Nairobi, Kenya and, in his youth, had been a self-taught geologist who had wandered around in jungles.
We went to dinner at his house one or twice a year when we visited my paternal grandparents in Santiniketan. The houses of Santiniketan each sat in a large garden ringed with a flowering hedge. As dusk gathered around the crowns of the trees and shrubs below, the air grew cool and still and fragrant with night scents and the dimly lit houses stood far apart from each other like islands in the darkness. My mother and I would walk up the crunchy gravel path through light and shadow up to the veranda of the Sandow dadu's house.
Sandow dadu's wife was not the sort of grandma who would envelop you in a big hug and leave flour prints on your dress before rushing off to get a loaded platter of fried goodies from the kitchen. She spoke quietly in a deep voice and served a few select, tasty dishes neatly arranged on the dining table. The sparkle in her eyes showed that she was happy to see us.
After dinner, it was story-telling time. Each story began with a full disclosure. "This one has about 10%," dadu would say. By that he meant the spice added to make the story better, the fraction of it that was not entirely factual. And the stories did not disappoint. They contained a satisfying number of tigers, ghosts and humorous interludes and just the right number of unexplained occurrences to keep both me and my mother hanging on to every word.
It was not just the tales he told of his adventures that were thrilling, every thing in his house seemed to harbor a secret. In the front room dadu, the former geologist, had a large display case crammed with rocks of different shapes, sizes and colors. On one visit, he lifted the lid of the case and gave me a sparkling stone that he swore was a real diamond. I had my doubts about that stone, but I kept it anyway, for many years, in a battered metal pencil box along with other treasures.
A pair of dolls, a boy and a girl, stood on a shelf in the living room. "That boy is very mischievous," Sandow dadu would say, "he keeps running away." Sure enough, half an hour later the boy would be gone. "I guess we have to go down to the garden to find him." So we would sit quietly on a bench in the garden while dadu whispered, "He keeps flying off into the trees. If we whistle in a particular way, he might come ...Oh look, he's right here beside me, I didn't even notice him sneaking back."
Sandow dadu's own bald pate was the butt of many of his jokes. He liked to tell the story of the first gift he got from his wife after their wedding - a set of silver hairbrushes. On another occasion, the whole family had lined up to bid him farewell as he left for an overseas trip. I can picture him looking very solemn, maybe even wiping away a tear or two. "I have had a good life," he said to the assembled sisters-in-law, "There's just one regret". They were so sympathetic, so concerned. "Oh what is it?" they asked, ready to comfort and reassure. Whereupon Sandow dadu looked mournfully down at the ground and, with as much sorrow in his voice as he could muster, replied "I wasn't able to grow a single hair on my bald head."
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