A couple of weeks back, I started to write about my paternal grandfather in an attempt to piece together his life from the bits of information I had gathered over the years. It turned out to be too long for a post so I put up only My Grandfather's Chair, which was actually the last bit that I had written. Now, I'm going to post the rest, in two or maybe even three more parts.
Here is the first:

I must have been around eight when my curiosity about my grandfather was first piqued. It had been three years since he had died, and I had loved him in utter and complete fascination while he was alive. Yet, it was only after his death that the man started turning into a legend in my mind. So I was constantly asking my father and my grandmother questions about my beloved Grandpa.

I noticed that when I asked these questions, I was thought to be an inquisitive and clever child and always received a pat on the back. I also realised that my quest to understand the man that my grandfather was, would place me in the spotlight as far as my family was concerned. My grandmother was always telling us about her dreams, in which Grandpa appeared and spoke to her.

One morning I woke up and announced, “Grandpa came in my dream last night.” Then, I looked eagerly at the faces around me.

“Oh my god! The child is blessed!” my grandmother screamed. “He’s trying to tell us something.”

“What did he say?” my dad asked.

“Oh, he asked me if I like going to school and told me to study hard.”

“What else did he say?” Granny urged, “Did he say anything about me?”

“No. He just said that if I want a big walky-talky doll then I will get one.”

I realised the power those few words of mine had, and from then on I was constantly waking up and telling everyone about these dreams of mine with Grandpa in them. The truth is, I never dreamed about him. But I loved the attention I got and besides, it made them all so happy. So I lied about it for years, and only recently admitted this to my Dad.

Thankfully, Daddy just laughed. Granny probably rolled in her grave a dozen times, at least!

Those innocent fibs of mine did manage to get my dad talking to me about his father. Daddy always told me never to be afraid of the dark and never to believe in ghosts. “You have to be brave love, just like your grandpa,” Dad would say each time the power went out and we sat in darkness.

Daddy told me how Grandpa never believed in ghosts and was constantly fighting with the people of his tiny village in South Goa about their superstitious beliefs. Each time someone in the village spread a story about a supernatural sighting at a deserted and “haunted” house, my grandfather would spend the night at that place all by himself.

People said he was crazy but Grandpa didn’t care. They would sneak up behind him and try to frighten him but he never budged, and the next morning he would ask them if they were still foolish enough to believe in ghosts.

The tiny village, in which my grandfather and generations of his ancestors lived before him, was probably the quietest and most non-descript village in all of Goa. Not too many people knew about it and you could easily miss it in the blink of an eye while passing through. Grandpa had lived there most of his life. The house that his father built still stands, and it’s still the only place I truly think of as home.

Most of the information I have about Grandpa is from what Dad and Granny used to tell me. He was an introvert. He didn’t speak to anyone except when it was absolutely necessary. He only listened to Western classical music and opera and devoured newspapers, magazines, books; just about anything he could lay his hands on.

Grandpa lived in a time when Goa was a Portuguese colony and the passage to the rest of India required official papers of transit. He wore tailored trousers and shirts and had his meals sitting at a dining table, using cutlery. He cut his beef with a knife and fork and ate his pork pickled in vinegar, something his Hindu second cousins who lived in the village nearby could never imagine doing.

To the untrained eye, Grandpa could easily be mistaken for a Portuguese parrot, or a brown-skinned European wannabe. Inside, however, he was one of the most patriotic men you would ever meet. He believed Goa belonged to India and longed to see the last of Portuguese ships as they left the tragic shores of his beloved homeland. He only spoke in his native tongue – Konkani.

Grandpa rarely ever spoke Portuguese (even though he knew it and completed his schooling in it) and his three sons were not taught the language. At home, Konkani was the only language spoken. As they grew up, English was introduced but only because it could help them get jobs later on in life. The Portuguese will leave Goa someday and we will be one with the rest of India where the British influence would still be strong, he would say.

Grandpa was a talented musician; he played the violin and the guitar and often got together with orchestra groups and other musicians. He worked in the merchant navy and met some interesting people while sailing. One of whom was a handsome gentleman, fluent in both Portuguese and Konkani. He was a music composer, playwright and director of Konkani theatre or tiatr in Goa.

He was from a village not too far away from Grandpa’s and the two of them would often get together after work to discuss and play music. They even formed a small band on board the ship, to entertain the staff after hours. This man actually served on a higher post than Grandpa but he always treated him as an equal.

A few years later, this highly talented man died tragically after contracting pneumonia. He left behind a one-year-old daughter and another child in his young wife’s womb.

Nobody knew it then, but years later that affable and interesting man that Grandpa had spent many an interesting evening and jam session with, turned out to be the long dead father of his oldest daughter-in-law.

Yes, that other man was my maternal grandfather. He died when my mother was just a year old and my grandmother was pregnant with my aunt. My brother and I didn’t know much about him while growing up, and it wasn't until some years ago that we found out how talented he was.

We have just one picture of my Mom's father; an old black and white print in which he and my grandmother look like a handsome Portuguese couple. As a child, I used to stare at it hard hoping that the beautiful couple in the picture would come alive. But more on that story later, for now this is about the paternal side of my family.

To be continued.