Me, My Grandfather and our 4AMs

Oftentimes, especially right before the break of dawn, right before the purple clouds fill the skies, welcoming the sun, when I'm awake—probably another episode of my sleepless nights pondering over a thought or writing something down, or maybe coming back home late. When the darkness begins to make way, and crack open for the bright rays to take over its shift, I'd be deeply consumed with the thoughts of my grandfather. When he was able, which was until a few months before his passing, he'd wake up right before sunrise, every single day, regardless of him feeling well or not. Back in twenty-twenty, when the world shut down, I was with my grandparents; it was just the three of us—and a few relatives who were spread across the hamlet. Back then, I wasn't a person who loved to go outdoors; I was comfortable in a room, as long as the internet worked magnificently. Like many of my friends, acquaintances, and fellow writers know, early that year, a few weeks after the world came to a rather temporary halt, I was struck by an inexplicable epiphany. Many of my writings reflect that mental state; it was rather enlightening. Well, that happened on one such morning, the early morning tea-time that my grandfather and I used to share.

He was a man built well for his age, his thick white hair combed back, and black, thick-framed spectacles that he wore indoors, sliding down to his nose. Precisely shaped pencil-moustache, and cleanly double-shaved cheeks and chin. When I was much younger, I'd noticed him smother a white cream off a circular blue canister. I noticed the name 'Nivea' on that, and made fun of him for smothering creams on his face, which I wrongly believed was reserved for women. He used to turn around, and murmur in his deep voice, 'This was called Tibet Snow, when I was in the army.' Well, I was wrong. I think about him every time I rub Nivea Moisturizer, scooping it out of the same blue canister that has never seemed to have gone out of business.

Well, this was just one of the many things I picked up from him. When I was in my late teens, it's quite well-known how much personal space and privacy are important for a teenager. He happened to understand that immensely for a person from his generation. Even if the door to my room was ajar, he ensured that he knocked before entering my space. When even young people around you just walk in everywhere without announcement, something about him doing this gesture inspired me.

He even played a wonderfully wise role, along with my father, validating the many emotions and thoughts, with regards to romance and otherwise, I've developed over the many years and calling it a very normal feeling to have. I truly felt how he let me be, and let me shine, during the years I stayed with him.

This morning, again, I was consumed by the thoughts of our shared tea-time. I wanted to relive it, hence this account. On a regular day, right around the beginning of the lockdown, I had a lot more free time than I ever thought I would have in my life. I was used to boredom; I had read all the books I had, watched all the movies that had released around that time, rewatched a few, and then I sort of got comfortable with boredom. I used to get bored early in the evening, around 6PM, and against the will of my grandparents, I used to doze off. I would sleep, dream of what I would become in the future, have dreams of becoming someone great, have crazy dreams of writing the best novels and poems in India.

I would wake up at 1AM. If there was a way of recording the energy of residents across that hamlet at 1 AM, I would be the most lively person. I would re-watch another movie about an entrepreneur, or a scientist, or a writer and get a sudden surge of excitement. I love when people win, and when they win big. I wish that for myself too, strongly.

Around 4AM, I would hear tiny sounds from the lower floor. I would pop my head out of my room, to see if the lights were ON downstairs, and then I used to hop, and jump, and at some point, I'm sure I would have moon-walked my way down to the living room.

"Good Morning Appupa," I would say, pretending to have just woken up.

"Good Morning," he would respond. "Did you eat dinner last night?" he would add.

I would say yes, and sneakily look at his big steel box filled with snacks, most of which I would have emptied last night.

"Let me make tea," he would say, while holding onto the kitchen counter. He would look at the induction stove, and the sauce pan over it, as he would see his over-diluted chai bubble up, and he would click on a button with a lot of effort.

"I am going to make eggs for myself," I would say, and he would get apprehensive about it. He was always afraid of me going close to the gas stove. He would stand there, until I fired up the gas stove, and placed the pan, cracked the eggs, and flipped them well-cooked, all while constantly saying—'Don't burn your hands.' Probably, he was the only person who'd ever pampered me in my life.

Then we found our way from the kitchen to the living room. He would sit on his decades-old leaning chair, a sturdy wooden frame, with a colourful, thick woven cloth somehow holding anyone sitting on it. My grandfather would switch on the television, and he'd pour a huge mug of tea for himself, and I'd take a glassful for myself. He would switch between News Channels across India, ABP News to Aaj Tak, to Sun News to Asianet. He would say in between, in his deep voice that I always seem to hear, about a lot of things that had happened when he was in the army, when he was a postmaster, or simply answer my questions.

There was a lot of silence, as both of us intently watched the news at 4:30AM, even before the world woke up. We sat silently, had our tea, and watched the news. Around 5:30AM, my grandmother would wake up, and I'd greet her with a 'Good Morning, Young Lady,' and she would giggle innocently.

I remember the last time I met my grandfather on his feet. He kept telling me, 'Everyone is telling me that you would go abroad to study, and never come back,' to which I would respond, 'Of course, I'll come back, I can't be abroad for long.'

The day, I remember, as I stood in the veranda, with 23 Kgs of luggage, a mind full of dreams, and a heavy heart. My dad had flown to India, to see me off. It was a proud moment, and it was a proud few months for my family—my parents, my grandparents, and my brother. Since I had received a gold medal in engineering, I had published my first book, I had published a research paper, and another one was underway, and now, I was the first person to have an opportunity to study abroad. Despite the happiness, I felt gloomy. My grandfather sat on his chair, in the veranda, looking at some point in the distance the whole day. I said, 'Appupa, I'm heading to the airport. Will see you soon.' He stood up, held my head, and kissed me. His kisses were different—it was as if he strongly inhaled as he pushed his lips and nose against my head. Then my father suggested we take a photograph of me, along with my grandparents.

It was then that everyone gathered there witnessed something almost impossible. A sight that no one even thought they would ever see until then. My grandfather, one of the strongest men I've seen, teared up as he held me. His lips trembled, his eyes drooped. I looked at him, and I teared up too. "Happy and Safe Journey," he murmured under his breath on that day, while waving his hands.

Years later, when I walked back to my home in Aruvikkarai, it was not like how I predicted it to be in my first book. He was bedridden, his skin almost hanging off his bones, yet his voice never seemed to have even a slight tremble, even through the weakness. I held his head, and called out of excitement, the way I've been calling him since I was an infant, 'Appupa..' I saw him light up; it was the first time I visibly saw someone light up at the sight of me. I spent a good one week with him in May 2025. This time, I spent my 4AM in tears, secretly walking out of the house and finding a space in the dark and crying my heart out. His 4AMs were in pain. He couldn't move, his joints hurt, he moaned in pain—and it was too hard for me to take.

On the last day, I had a feeling that it might probably be the last time I would meet him. Although, I tried to deny that feeling. I held his head, I put my forehead against his. I kissed his forehead softly multiple times. 'I'll come back soon, Appupa,' I said. He nodded. I sat that way, my hands strongly holding his, and my lips on his forehead. I didn't tear up, although I struggled to swallow the lump in my throat from holding a lot of emotions in.

I stood up to leave, my hands still holding his. "Wish you a Happy and Safe Journey," he said in his deep, baritone voice, with clear diction. I smiled, and said—"Thank you, Appupa."

I miss you, Appupa. I don't feel like going home anymore. Nothing feels the same without you there. You were the only one who had my back, and you were the only one who stood by me through ridicule and everything. I wish I could write to you, and hear back. I wish I could give you a call, and wait for you to call back. I'm sure you're walking barefoot wherever you are, despite me saying not to go out, especially when your feet are swollen. I'm sure you're following the news, and giving your pieces of advice somehow to the current postmaster in the post office across the home.

You've always been a part of me, and somehow, You've become me, now. Waiting for you to write back.

Yours in anticipation,

~ your ever-loving Grandson.