Ram Raksha

I approached the lovely white house with black shutters apprehensively on foot, after having driven by at least five times.  I shuffled with shaky knees up the front walk on a suitably gray day. I lifted my hand to the bell, held my breath and rang.  A small old man in a button up shirt, khakis and thick glasses answered the door. “Hi,” I said, “my name is Jennifer Sherrill. It’s nice to meet you. I am your granddaughter..”

Growing up, I had heard stories of this imposing house and judgmental man. I had heard how my mother had been brutally turned away for not being rich enough or classy enough for my father and as a result, neither was I. However, as I had always suspected, I had heard wildly altered versions of the truth. Though I was aware of this house a mere hour’s drive from where I was attending university, it wasn’t until my third year of study that I had gained enough pride and self respect to attempt such a drive. Despite my nervousness and clumsily stated introduction, my grandfather did not bat an eye nor did he hesitate. He simply said, “Come in.”  

I visited him many times thereafter, having found a lonely old man whose wife had passed on the year before and whose children were wrapped up in the daily details of their own lives. While I had missed meeting my grandmother, my grandfather shared lovely stories of when they were young together. We listened to old recordings of big bands and Benny Goodman and I played my grandmother’s well loved, time worn, baby grand. I never asked about my father.  Those questions were not for my grandfather to answer. 

As time passed, the house was packed up and my grandfather moved to a small apartment in an assisted living community.  With each visit I could see him standing a little less tall, having a little less energy until one visit I showed up with an optimistic pot of daisies only to be told by the front desk that my grandfather had died. ‘I should have known,’ I thought, ‘How could I  have wasted so much time?’

  

My husband’s grandfather is taller than mine was and is rail thin.  He wears white loose pants and a white tunic, occasionally covered by a sweater vest despite the Thai heat. He has need of a pair of large thick glasses and has a full head of shockingly white hair, which in combination with his white clothing, gives him an air of a Santero priest.  He naps easily though massive chaos and watches hindi soap operas at an astoundingly loud volume.  He goes for slow meandering walks each day and on his walks, he lovingly picks flowers for his daughter, my new mother-in-law. 

He has witnessed the world change from the Indian perspective. He has lived through World War II, The rise and fall of freedom fighters, India’s independence from England, and the partition of a separate Pakistan.  He has seen his daughter leave India to build a life with her husband in Thailand and he has watched his grandson walk the ‘seven steps’ with his new fair American bride.  Yet every single day at the same time, he sits at the dining room table calmly reciting the Ram Raksha as a priest reciting his rosary. Occasionally, I sat with him, enjoying the ebb and flow of the ancient Sanskrit words. 

My husband and I have since left Thailand for our home in Chicago and his grandfather has returned to his home in India. However, there is comfort to be found in the knowledge of continuity and each day as this tiny old man begins his hymn to Ram, I imagine the ear of the supreme god Vishnu bending down to listen.