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

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

There are days when the house is quiet, save for the rustling of leaves outside, and I find myself sitting in my favorite armchair, lost in memories. The scent of marigolds, the sound of a child’s laughter, and the taste of sweet, forbidden treats—they all come rushing back, like a vivid dream I never want to wake from. These are the memories of my time with Aaryan, my grandson, my little adventurer, who turned my world upside down in the most wonderful ways.

Our mornings together were always a magical beginning. The first light of dawn would filter through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the walls, and soon enough, I’d hear the pitter-patter of little feet. “Dadu, the sun is awake! It’s time for our walk!” Aaryan would call out, his voice full of excitement. He was never one to let the day slip by without squeezing every ounce of adventure from it.

Our morning walks were not just a routine; they were a daily journey into a world of imagination. As we stepped out, the cool morning breeze would greet us, and Aaryan’s eyes would light up at the sight of the marigold flowers blooming along the path. “Dadu, look at these "gainda" flowers!” he’d exclaim, bending down to pluck a few. In his mind, these weren’t just flowers—they were the key ingredient for “celundala” , a homeopathy cream, a magical potion that could heal any wound or make you invisible. 

 

But flowers weren’t the only treasures we sought on our walks. Aaryan had a keen eye for the unusual—a stone shaped like a heart, a feather glinting in the sunlight, or a particularly smooth pebble. Each one was a “clue” in our ongoing adventure, as he would often remind me. “Dadu, these are signs that we’re on the right path. The treasure must be near,” he’d say, his voice tinged with excitement. And I, of course, would agree wholeheartedly, enjoying every minute of our shared fantasy.

Sometimes, our walks took us to the local market, where Aaryan’s love for food would guide our steps. The moment we neared the Reliance Fresh showroom, his eyes would dart to the golgappa stall nearby. With a mischievous grin, he’d tug at my hand and whisper, “Dadu, let’s go to the golgappa shop, but quietly—Maiyya mustn’t know!” 

We’d sneak over like two secret agents on a mission, our eyes darting around to ensure we weren’t spotted. The vendor, now familiar with our covert visits, would greet us with a knowing smile. Aaryan would watch intently as the vendor prepared the golgappas, his mouth watering in anticipation. “Dadu, these are the best in the world,” he’d declare after the first crunchy bite, his face lighting up with pure joy.

One of our most cherished rituals was our visits to the hospital canteen. Though it might seem an odd place for a child to favor, Aaryan was drawn there for one very simple reason: samosas. As soon as we’d arrive, his eyes would search the menu, though his decision was always the same. “One samosa, please,” he’d announce confidently, as if ordering a gourmet meal. We’d sit together in the small, bustling canteen, Aaryan savoring each bite like it was the most delicious food on earth. “Dadu, why don’t we make samosas like this at home?” he’d ponder, and I’d chuckle, knowing that part of the taste came from the thrill of being somewhere he wasn’t usually allowed to be.

Aaryan had an endless curiosity that often led to some amusing encounters. I remember one particularly hot afternoon when we stopped by a coconut water seller. The vendor, with his weathered face and ready smile, asked the usual question, “With malai or only water?” But Aaryan, ever the inquisitive one, tilted his head and asked, “How do you come to know which one has malai?”

The vendor was momentarily stumped, struggling to find an answer. Aaryan, sensing his hesitation, quickly added, “Acha, aapko experience se pata chal jata hoga.” The vendor, grateful for the save, nodded with a smile, and I couldn’t help but laugh at how my little grandson had turned what was a routine question into a philosophical discussion.

Back at home, Aaryan’s boundless energy and imagination knew no bounds. We’d play with his collection of toys, each one a character in the grand stories he created. His favorite, though, wasn’t a toy at all, but a well-worn wallet he kept tucked away. He called it his “treasure chest,” and inside it, he’d carefully store any money he received—whether it was a gift from a visiting relative or a small allowance.

One day, when Raksha Bandhan arrived, he decided that it was time to put his treasure to use. He had a special bond with Himanshi, his sister, and he took the responsibility of gifting her very seriously. “Dadu, I’ll give her at least one hundred rupees,” he declared. I watched, amused, as he carefully opened his little purse, counted out the money with great concentration, and proudly handed it over to Himanshi. Her eyes sparkled with delight, and Aaryan beamed with pride, feeling very grown-up indeed.

Our conversations were always full of surprises. One evening, as we sat together, Ganga mentioned that she might have to leave her job. Aashish was already at home, and I decided to tease Aaryan a bit. “Aaryan,” I said in a serious tone, “if Maiyaa leaves her job, and Baba is also home, where will we get the money for our expenses?”

Aaryan, who was engrossed in his toys, paused, looked up at me with those big, innocent eyes, and without missing a beat, said, “From the ATM, Dadu. What’s the problem?”

I burst into laughter, the kind that comes from deep within. The simplicity of his solution, the way he saw the world, always made me smile. In his mind, the ATM was like a magic box that could solve all problems, and to him, there was nothing more to worry about.

Aaryan’s sharp mind extended to his observations of the world around him. I’ll never forget the day we stopped by a toy shop during school hours. The shopkeeper, noticing our frequent visits, teased Aaryan, “You don’t go to school? You’re always here with your grandfather during school hours.”

Aaryan, with that familiar twinkle in his eye, replied confidently, “School jane se kya hota hai? You ask me any questions on any subject.” The shopkeeper, taken aback, was at a loss for words, and Aaryan, sensing his victory, walked out with a triumphant grin. “School ki baat karte hain, couldn’t ask any question!” he muttered, more to himself than to me, as if he had just outsmarted the entire education system.

One of the most surreal moments we shared happened one morning on our walk. We were strolling down a familiar path when suddenly, I spotted something out of the ordinary. There, just ahead of us, was what looked like an elephant or a zebra, ohh no, it was actually a dinosaur—only it had a staircase on its back and a slide that led down to the ground. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and looked again. It was still there, a curious blend of reality and imagination.

“Dadu, do you see it too?” Aaryan asked, his voice hushed with awe. 

I nodded, unsure of what to say. Was this real, or just a figment of our shared dream world?

“Let’s climb up and slide down!” Aaryan exclaimed, pulling me towards it. We ran towards the creature, laughing as he climbed the stairs and slid down, over and over again. The sun was just rising, casting long shadows on the ground, and for a brief, magical moment, it felt as though we had stepped into another world—one where dinosaurs with slides on their backs were as real as the marigold flowers in our hands.

As the years go by, and Aaryan grows older, I find myself revisiting these memories more and more. There’s a tinge of nostalgia in the air as I recall the days when he was still small enough to fit in my arms, yet wise beyond his years. I remember the weight of his hand in mine, the sound of his laughter, and the way he looked at the world with wonder and curiosity.

In those moments, it feels as though I’m stepping back into that dream world we once shared—a world where flowers turned into magical potions, where coconuts held secrets, and where the simplest of walks could become the grandest of adventures. And though time has moved on, and Aaryan is no longer the little boy he once was, in my heart, he will always be that child—my little explorer, my partner in mischiefs, my dearest companion.

These memories are the treasures I hold closest, more precious than gold or silver. They are the stories I will tell over and over, to anyone who will listen, because they are the stories that keep the magic alive.