My Grandfather, the Wordsmith
Note: In the midst of a pandemic, I began having an identity crisis. The rise of hate crimes against AAPI brothers and sisters left me feeling heartbroken and powerless. I turned to the writing community for a sense of comfort, and to help me take my power back. Writing has always reminded me that I still have a duty to document and tell our stories. I will be publishing excerpts from my unpublished memoir throughout the month. Happy Asian Pacific American Heritage Month! #APAHM. (Excerpts 2 and 3)
Living with my grandparents during my childhood and teen years was nothing short of a blessing.
My dad — the eldest of three brothers — took the responsibility of welcoming his parents into his home. The thought of sending his parents to a retirement home never crossed his mind. He respected his parents and understood all of the sacrifices they had made so their sons could have a better life in America.
My dad felt as though he owed it to his parents to make sure they lived a comfortable life while being able to experience and see their grandchildren grow up in the same house.
My grandfather (dada) was an extraordinary person in my life who had a knack for storytelling and a passion for stamp collecting, board games, and sports. He enjoyed watching tennis matches, NBA basketball games, and golf tournaments on television. Of course, he’d always clap his hands and cheer for Roger Federer and the late Kobe Bryant.
Dada wore many different hats in his life, but always considered himself a wordsmith more than anything else. He lived and breathed words just as I did.
He would enjoy spending the afternoon with his grandkids playing a competitive game of Scrabble or scouting out the best shopping discounts that came with his newspaper subscriptions. He’d always sort through the coupon book and cut through all the shopping discounts he wanted to use for his next shopping trip.
The coupon stack was as thick as a deck of cards, much to my embarrassment as a kid. Usually, the cashier at Albertsons would chuckle and smile as she ran what seemed like a hundred coupons through the loud scanner.
I watched as my grandfather’s eyes lit up whenever the numbers of the price of cereal, vegetables, and milk went down on the computer screen like magic. Dada always aspired to be a contestant on the show, “Supermarket Sweep.” (I’m pretty sure he would have scored big if he had the chance to face other bargain hunters).
Dada always greeted anyone who crossed his path with a warm smile. He was always cheerful, and I often wondered if someone could ever be that happy in life.
Whether it was the USPS postal service worker or a neighbor, my dada always struck up a conversation and asked how they were doing or whether there was anything he could do to help.
Kindness was the Luhar way, and that was just the kind of gentleman he was.
For dada, there was always something to do, whether it was taking inventory of his massive stamp collection by handwriting a list of stamps he collected from the US Postal Service in chronological order, or using a ruler to outline the margins in a ballpoint pen. He kept his mind and body busy with projects to complete.
Dada had collected thousands of stamps from all over the world since he was a young kid. After his passing, I made the bittersweet trip to the US Postal Service to buy a collection of the first historic Diwali stamp from the Forever Collection in honor of my dada. That stamp was coincidentally issued on my dada’s 9th death anniversary in October of 2016.
Dada would often set up a mini office in his room early in the morning. He kept an old fashioned brown briefcase with an elaborate clutch to help him feel as though he were getting ready for work even after he had long retired.
As a kid, I always thought his briefcase was made out of alligator skin because of its tough shell and scaly ridges. My grandfather reassured and told me he was Hindu and would not consider purchasing anything that was a product of an animal.
After a hard day of filing and writing letters to friends or organizing his stamp collection, dada would put away his briefcase or use it to elevate his aching legs.
He had suffered from arthritis and experienced a lot of joint pain and other chronic health issues. In many ways, his briefcase had been there for him as an inanimate, therapeutic companion. It had also been a valuable item that stored his precious letters, ballpoint pens, rulers, and stamps. The briefcase gave him purpose.
Dada’s daily routine consisted of spending a dedicated few hours letter writing with his stellar penmanship and ballpoint pen; playing Soduko and reading all of the pages of the Los Angeles Times. And by all the pages, I mean every little detail — from obituaries to the classifieds. Back in the 90s and early 2000s, I imagine there were more pages of the local newspaper to sift through than the present day.
But aside from staying up to date on news in America, my grandfather was just as concerned about the news affecting Indian Americans. Dada had always been a wordsmith and storyteller. He reminded me of my power as an Indian American, and he often told me to never forget my roots or feel inferior to others who tried to undermine or make me feel less than.
Every day, dada would religiously flip through the pages of India-West newspaper, one of the largest Indian American newspapers on the West Coast since 1975.
Little did he know that years later, his granddaughter would coincidentally land her first reporting job shortly after graduating college in 2011. She’d go on to write her first cover story on former LA Philharmonic violinist Vijay Gupta.
Before going to my parents to talk about a conflict or other news, I always made sure my dada was the first to know. Whether it was my first byline or a school award, dada would be the best first person I’d run to. I’d cry to him, share my fears, and go to him with anything that was on my mind.
“You can write anything,” my dada would often say whenever I felt discouraged.
Even when his Tiger Balm-infused legs were still aching, dada was a fighter. He never wanted to disappoint his grandkids so he always stretched his capabilities without complaining about the joint pain he suffered from.
I wasn’t a fan of math, so I would often ask dada if we could play Scrabble without counting the number tiles. We wouldn’t play by the rules, and that’s what I loved about our version of Scrabble and other board games.
He let me use my creativity and imagination with no boundaries. We’d even take out a sheet of lined paper and come up with more words out of a word like PHENOMENON.
When we were exhausted from playing word games, dada would muster his remaining strength to play Monopoly with me and my younger brother Ronak. Since I was never good at math, my dada would be the Banker and I’d handle the more creative aspects of the game.
Dada always used these gaming moments as a way to teach his grandchildren and share some of the life-changing and memorable childhood games he grew up playing as a kid. They were the type of games that renewed his spirit and helped carry him forward through the tough times. Games provided a release or an escape as a kid.
Dada had a penchant for playing Carrom — a popular game in South Asia and the Middle East — which consists of circular discs that are flicked across a wooden board.
To help me better understand the game as a kid, I imagined it was similar to a pool table — but without the fancy pool stick. We’d have to sit cross-legged on the floor and first stretch out our fingers to avoid the pain of flicking the Carrom discs.
Dada would often dump a generous amount of Johnson & Johnson talcum powder as an old trick to avoid having the Carrom discs lose their momentum or get stuck in the middle of the board.
His flicks were quite lethal, so much so that whenever he struck the board, he’d leave behind visible carvings of his nail scratches from frequent use. He’d usually win the game because of his masterful gaming strategies and patience.
Today, the same Carrom board bears visible carvings and nail scratches my grandfather left behind on the wood.
Although the board is damaged, it still serves as a wonderful reminder of the many memories I shared with my grandfather.
I gently ran my fingers through the engravings left behind my dada, the wordsmith. They fit perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle.
Moving with the Waves: My Dada’s Immigration Story
Dada always looked dapper and poised in old photographs from his time living in East Africa.
Now that I recall, I don’t think I ever saw my grandfather wear a traditional Indian outfit in any of his photos, other than his wedding photos. I always saw him with a warm smile and his wavy hair slicked back with a slight curl sticking out.
When my brother and I were young kids, dada would often wear a white dress shirt with grey cotton dress pants. Even when we went grocery shopping at Ralph’s with him, dada would always wear business pants and then dress it down by wearing slippers. I liked his style — it was authentic and true to himself.
From countless audio interviews with my dad, I was able to discover some interesting facts about his dad’s immigration story.
Born in Karamsad, India in 1932, dada grew up as the middle child of three siblings, two brothers, and a sister.
I had the privilege of visiting my dada’s first house in Karamsad, India, during my recent visit to India in 2018. Much of the original architecture was still intact, but the house had recently been transformed into a two-story flat, according to my dad. The house had been extended a few decades ago after my dada started sending some money from his overseas work in Africa to help support his parents and siblings.
The house had a prominent blue door that spoke volumes of my grandfather’s warm presence and charismatic spirit. I remember gently examining the blue door, running my fingers along the moldings to help me stay connected to my dada’s spirit, though he had long passed in 2007, during my freshman year in college.
The house had narrow walls, hardly separating it from the other homes. The dirt roads went on for miles and it was difficult for me to even cross the street without thinking I’d be roadkill any minute.
In my interview with my dad, I came to learn that my dada had traveled by ship — making the long trek from India to Dar es Salaam, Africa, in search of better opportunities for his family at the age of 19 in the 1950s.
At the time, dada told his older brother to resume his engineering studies in India and not to worry about finding a job. My dada volunteered to gain work experience and send the money he would earn during his time in Africa back to his parents and siblings in India.
Dada had never been on a ship before. A friend told him to eat onions to help ward off the sickness and nausea that he would most likely experience onboard the ship. With a few herbal remedies, dada was back to feeling better once the ship had docked in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, Africa.
When the ship had finally docked several days later, a good friend from a neighboring city picked him up and offered to provide temporary housing. Eventually, my grandfather was able to find a few odd jobs, working as an errand boy, a typist at a law firm, and an accountant clerk for a newspaper.
Working at the law firm, dada learned about the inner workings of law. His colleagues were amazed by how intelligent and meticulous he was. There were days when my dada often thought about what it would be like if he could have had the opportunity to finish his college degree. But he realized that money was tight, and he had a duty as a son to care for his aging parents and siblings back home in India.
Homesick but eager to put in long work hours and learn as much as he could in Africa, dada maintained his discipline and knew that someday, in the distant future, he’d be reunited with his family in India.
“He never went to higher education, never had any solid education so he had to do whatever it took to make some money. We didn’t have any luxuries — no tv, no car,” my 60-year-old dad recalled.
My dad recalled that sometimes my dada would get up at 4 a.m. before heading to work just to listen to a cricket match that was held between India and England. He would put his ear close to the radio speaker and listen to every word with admiration and loyalty.
“He always wanted to know what the scores were and keep up to date with the latest match,” said my dad.
Dada also enjoyed playing a game of cricket with his friends and teaching others in the neighborhood about the game in Swahili. He’d also share his love of storytelling with the neighborhood kids. They’d stare at him with fascination while he narrated a story under a mango tree.
“He would gather all the kids and they would come to my home and we would all sit down and my dad would tell a story. He was like a teacher and people looked up to him and loved the way he talked and told a story,” said dad.
One day, after getting off late from work, a driver had pulled his window down and volunteered to give my dada a ride with five other passengers. Dada couldn’t make out some of the signs and street lights because of the dense fog that clouded his vision. Dada initially hesitated and said he’d be fine walking, but knew it was getting too late so he decided to hop into the car and accept the man’s kind gesture.
After sharing stories and talking about their days, the driver got distracted and crashed into another car. Luckily, my dada survived the car crash, but unfortunately the passenger next to him fell on his lap. The driver died on impact and only one other passenger and my dada miraculously survived the crash, according to the interview with my dad.
Dada never shared that story with me, as I imagined it must have been very traumatic for him to relive. It wasn’t until I started doing oral interviews with my dad that I learned of this story.
Dada eventually had enough money to travel back to his hometown in India, where he married my grandmother (ba). Eventually, ba came to Africa and gave birth to three boys (one of which was my dad).
In the area they lived — which was far away from the city in the middle of nowhere — there were a few Indian families, my dad said. But the locals never made his dad feel like an outsider, he said. They were welcoming and kind.
From interviews with my dad, I learned that the family didn’t always have running water or electricity. They learned to save what they could and only buy the necessities. I could see how this mentality shaped both my dad and dada as the years passed by.
“We lived in a place where there were no roads, just dirt pathways. I was too young to realize and to know what poverty was, but we had food, we were clothed properly. My dad bought whatever he could and we had the necessary things,” my dad told me.
Eventually, dada decided to keep his British citizenship and moved the family to London, England, instead of staying in Tanzania, Africa, because his work permit was set to expire.
It was a difficult decision, but one that had to be made.
My dada’s time in East Africa had come to an end. He was thankful for all the friendships he had made, and for starting a family and continuing the next adventure that awaited him in London, England.
-Written by Monica Luhar (excerpts from my unpublished memoir. Currently seeking a lit agent).
Read the first excerpt, “My Family’s Old Convenience Store in Finchley, London.”
