A grandfather who became a godfather
I was born in Sultanwind village of Amritsar district in 1928. Few people know that Sultanwind residents played a significant role in the freedom struggle. Many of them were killed or injured in the Jallianwala Bagh massacre.
Recently, I had a life-threatening accident, which left my left leg and shoulder fractured. As I reflect on my life, my thoughts turn to my late grandfather, who was the embodiment of simplicity, humility and love. A pure Brahmin who recited bhajans, he wore a simple dhoti and khaddar kurta. His life was marked by devotion not just to God but also to those around him. He was deeply revered in our village for his selflessness and kindness. Living a life of quiet dignity, he was always willing to help those in need.
A simple man running a modest shop, he made our lives rich in ways money could never measure. When my father abandoned me and my sick mother, it was my grandfather who took us in. Despite his meagre means, he provided shelter and care with a heart full of grace.
To make ends meet, he took up a job as a postman. At his age, this was no small task, yet he delivered the mail with unwavering dedication. Later, he became the village’s branch postmaster, earning a modest
Rs 6 a month. Despite his lack of formal education, he performed his duties with incredible efficiency, even though most postal records were in English, a language he was not familiar with.
With his small income from the shop and the post office job, he ensured that my mother and I had food, shelter and most importantly, the opportunity for me to pursue my studies.
Every day, he would set out for the Upper Bari Doab Canal before dawn, a bag in hand, followed by a pack of dogs. Whether it was the scorching summer heat or the winter chill, he carried on with his routine, sleeping in the shop without so much as a fan. He loved animals, especially cows. When one of his cows, entrusted to a friend for care, died, he wept like a child. Yet, even in his grief, he continued to care for us.
Before the Partition, he had earned a petition writer’s licence; he served villagers by writing petitions in Urdu. When the language of administrative work changed to Punjabi, he learned Gurmukhi, despite being over 70 at that time. His willingness to learn and adapt was remarkable — an example of perseverance that I carry with me to this day.
Amid every hardship, he believed that good days were ahead, and he instilled this hope in me. When I completed my law degree and became an advocate, he organised langar to celebrate my success. His pride in my achievements was a treasure that still fills my heart.
He lived to the age of 100. Had it not been for his love and support, my ailing mother and I would not have survived. He was like a demigod to us. He was not just a grandfather; he was a godfather, a beacon of strength and compassion. I will forever be indebted to him for his sacrifice, love and unwavering faith in me.
To those who are fortunate enough to have such elders, cherish them. The moral is simple: care for your elders and respect them. Do not abandon them in homes for the elderly at the mercy of strangers. They are the true pillars of our lives.