Summer with Papaji

Papaji, my grandfather, was a stern man. He always stood straight, his body lean and muscular from the physical work of farming. When I was young, I thought he seemed awfully big. His mustache curled at the ends, and his turban made him appear larger than life. A glance from him was enough to keep my sisters and me in line. Yet every summer I looked forward to seeing Papaji. It was a family ritual to visit his farm in the heart of Punjab in India.

The overnight train trip was always followed by a joyful ride on a tonga, a horse-drawn carriage that would bring us to the farm. Our arrival signaled the end of a school year and the freedom to do what we liked with our time. After greeting our grandparents and drinking lassi (buttermilk), we’d run to see the animals.

There were cows and buffaloes, especially bhuri bhains (the blond buffalo), sheep, chickens, and Billo, the beautiful horse. Being city slickers, we enjoyed every moment of feeding and washing the animals. We played with the newborn calves and lambs; their soft skin felt wonderful against our cheeks.

When we got hungry, we’d crowd Bibiji, our grandmother, in the kitchen. She cooked over a wood fire in a clay stove. We’d blow on the wood to make the fire rage, hoping that it would help the food cook faster. Bibiji’s food was rich and full of delicious flavors. We ate hot rotis (flat breads) straight from the stove, with a blob of white butter.  

Everything was an adventure. The storeroom was a treasure trove. We’d rediscover old toys and games, play hide-and-seek, and run our hands through the grain in the silos. Then in the summer heat, we’d laze in our high-ceilinged room on old four-poster beds. There was a pile of magazines we had already read several times but would read again and again.

Papaji tolerated us. We were like flies that hovered around him all day. He was not a man who showed emotion easily. There were times he caught us red-handed touching some of his possessions or exploring places we weren’t supposed to, and his quiet scolding left us well-behaved for the rest of our stay.

But the summer I turned nine was different. We’d gotten into trouble early during our holiday. As a result, we spent most days in our room or skulking around corners, out of Papaji’s sight. One morning on my way to the animal sheds, I heard clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, ping.

It stopped me in my tracks. I hid behind a pillar and peered at the source of the sound: Papaji in his study, typing a letter. A plain sheet of paper was wrapped around the cylinder. With two fingers, he tapped the keys at a fair speed. I leaned farther to see better, then tripped and fell through the door.

For a while I lay in a heap on the floor of the study. I was sorry, so sorry! I stood up, red in the face and trying to make myself invisible. 

Papaji’s eyes glinted. I looked at the floor and hoped the scolding would be short. He called me over. I approached him slowly. He asked what I was doing, and I told him that I’d been fascinated by the sound of the typewriter. I’d only wanted to get a better look; I wasn’t going to touch anything, I promised.

He didn’t say anything else.

Not sure what to do, I stood near his elbow watching him type. I longed to touch the beautiful yellow keys with steel rims and the lovely black space bar. The keys hit the ribbon, and letters appeared on the paper as if by magic.

The rest of the summer I’d hear the sounds of typewriter keys and wander toward them, fearfully at first but more confidently when I realized Papaji didn’t seem to mind. I stood silently, admiring the wonder of the words forming on the page.

After going home, I spent the year writing poems, letters, and stories in longhand… and thinking of ways to convince Papaji to let me use the typewriter when I returned to his house. After all, I planned to be a writer, and writers used typewriters.

But the next summer, my dream languished and faded away. I continued to stand at his elbow as he typed, hoping he would offer me a chance to try it. But he never did.

On returning home that year, I received a letter from the post office telling me to come and collect a parcel. The whole family made the trip to the post office.

When I opened the box, I found the typewriter! Papaji had given me permission to use it at last. My big stern grandfather wasn’t such an unaffectionate man after all.