A Grandfather's Tale: Dreams, Laughter, and Aaryan

There are some afternoons when the house becomes very quiet. Only the sound of leaves outside, or a pressure cooker somewhere far away, breaks the silence. I sit in my old armchair and memories start coming one after another — the smell of marigolds, little footsteps running through the house, half-eaten samosas, endless questions and laughter.

And almost every memory somehow leads back to Aaryan.

My little grandson.

The child who turned ordinary walks into adventures and ordinary days into stories.

Our mornings together had their own rhythm. Before the rest of the house fully woke up, I would hear his feet running towards my room.

“Dadu, sun is awake. चलो जल्दी!”

And there was no refusing him.

We would step out while the air was still cool and fresh. Along the roadside grew marigold flowers which Aaryan loved very much.

“Dadu look…gainda flowers!”

He would pluck a few very carefully and then start preparing what he called “celundala” — some magical homeopathy cream according to him which could heal wounds, cure diseases and sometimes even make people invisible. Every few days its powers changed.

But flowers alone were never enough.

Aaryan had a special eye for strange treasures — heart-shaped stones, smooth pebbles, shiny wrappers, feathers lying mysteriously on the road. Everything had meaning.

“Dadu, these are clues. Treasure must be nearby.”

And naturally I agreed completely.

Many times our walks would slowly drift towards Reliance Fresh because nearby stood his beloved golgappa stall.

The moment we approached the place, he would lower his voice dramatically:

“Dadu… quietly. Maiyya must not know.”

Then both of us would walk towards the stall like criminals planning a secret operation.

The golgappa vendor knew us well by then. He would smile seeing Aaryan already staring at the pani and pooris with total concentration.

After the first bite would come the inevitable declaration:

“Dadu, these are the best golgappas in the whole world.”

And at that moment he genuinely believed it.

One very strange favorite place of his was the hospital canteen.

Not for hospitals. For samosas.

The moment we entered, he became very serious.

“One samosa please,” he would announce confidently as if conducting important business.

Then we would sit there while he ate slowly and thoughtfully.

“Dadu…why don’t samosas at home taste like this?”

I never had the heart to tell him that perhaps half the taste came from eating in a place where he was not really supposed to enjoy himself so much.

Aaryan’s questions could arrive from absolutely nowhere.

One hot afternoon we stopped for coconut water. The seller asked the usual question:

“Malai wala ya only water?”

But before I could answer, Aaryan looked up at him and asked very seriously:

“How do you know which coconut has malai?”

The poor fellow became silent for few seconds.

Then Aaryan himself rescued him:

“Acha…experience se pata chal jata hoga.”

The seller laughed in relief and nodded immediately.

Back home, his imagination continued full-time.

His toys were not toys. They were armies, kingdoms, secret agents and sometimes patients requiring urgent surgery.

But his favorite possession was an old wallet which he guarded like treasure.

Inside it he kept every rupee he received from relatives. Coins, notes, folded papers — all arranged with deep seriousness.

During Raksha Bandhan he announced:

“Dadu, I will give Himanshi at least hundred rupees.”

Then came the great counting ceremony.

He opened the wallet carefully, counted and recounted the money many times, and finally handed it proudly to his sister with the satisfaction of a businessman closing a major deal.

One evening at home, Ganga casually mentioned she might leave her job.

Aashish was sitting nearby and I decided to tease Aaryan.

“Aaryan,” I asked gravely, “if Maiyya leaves her job and Baba also stays home, then where will money come from for all expenses?”

Without even looking up properly from his toys he replied:

“ATM se, Dadu. Problem kya hai?”

I laughed so hard that day.

In his world the ATM was simply a magical machine from where money emerged endlessly whenever required. Such things were very simple according to him.

Another day we entered a toy shop during school hours.

The shopkeeper, already familiar with us, teased him:

“You don’t go to school? You are always roaming around with your grandfather.”

Aaryan looked at him calmly and replied:

“School jane se kya hota hai? You ask me any question from any subject.”

The shopkeeper stood there speechless.

Aaryan walked out proudly muttering:

“School ki baat karte hain… question hi nahi pooch paaye.”

And perhaps one of the strangest mornings happened during one of our walks.

Ahead of us stood something impossible.

At first I thought it was shaped like an elephant. Then zebra. Then suddenly I realized it looked like a dinosaur with stairs on its back and a slide attached to it.

I rubbed my eyes.

Still there.

“Dadu, you can also see it?” Aaryan whispered.

I nodded.

That was enough for him.

“चलो!”

Off he ran.

For the next several minutes he climbed up and slid down again and again while morning sunlight spread slowly across the park.

And strangely, for those few moments, it did not feel imaginary at all.

It felt completely real.

Perhaps that is childhood.

Years have passed now.

Aaryan is growing up fast and the little fellow who once fit easily into my arms now talks, argues, questions and walks ahead of me.

But certain memories refuse to grow old.

The feel of his small hand. The excitement in his eyes. The secret golgappa missions. The confidence with which he solved every problem in life through an ATM.

Sometimes I feel that while walking with him, I too had quietly entered his world — a world where flowers became medicines, coconuts carried mysteries, and dinosaurs waited casually near morning parks.

And perhaps that is why these memories stay so alive.

Not because they were extraordinary.

But because while living them, we never once doubted that magic could exist in ordinary life.