Weeks prior to his demise, my father handed over to me a small wooden box with inlay work he had inherited from his father. It contained, among other things, some exquisite antiques that my grandfather had assiduously collected for posterity and his personal diary.
The diary pages had yellowed, yet I could have an insight into his psyche, his philosophy and his benevolent nature. My grandfather, MLR, had jotted down several anecdotes and on issues that were close to his heart.
One was as follows: He had inherited a palatial house from his grand-aunt when she died, childless. It was clearly a situation akin to gifting a white elephant to a person already having a lot of properties to manage all by himself with difficulty. The new acquisition had 15 bedrooms, sprawling gardens and servant quarters.
Even as MLR was contemplating how the unsolicited property could be best put to use — and maintained properly — the region witnessed social strife on a massive scale. The turmoil led to numerous deaths and injuries. Many men were maimed, women widowed and scores of children left orphaned.
Among them were eight-year-old girl Seema and her five-year-old brother Arjun. The duo were not only rendered destitute, they were severely traumatised. They had seen their parents and other family members being killed in front of their eyes. Luckily, they hid themselves in a cowshed where rescuers, led by MLR, found them hungry and thirsty and trembling in fear. My grandfather brought them home.
It took MLR hours to calm them down and to assure that they were quite safe. While Seema cried hysterically and incessantly, Arjun was absolutely quiet due to the shock. The pain of witnessing the killings and flowing blood was a lot of emotional baggage for them to handle. Both Seema and Arjun had difficulty in talking, eating and sleeping.
Our family members were no less disturbed. In the diary my grandfather mentioned how disturbed he woke up each day to witness more displaced people of all ages, and pouring in large numbers. Some were maimed and handicapped. Both young and old died unsung and unwept. Nobody would bother because there were so many of them.
Deeply moved by the penury and misery suddenly all around him, MLR could no more take the pain of watching the maimed, ill-fed and malnourished people in front of his eyes. He kept thinking of how he could help make a difference for their better and brighter future.
“Aha,” he said to himself. “Perhaps God has given me the palatial property for the good of these people.” He had been blessed with abundance and it would be unjust to not give it back to the society. One evening he decided to transform their large home into a vocational training centre-cum-hostel for the survivors. Some lauded the idea, but many others in the conservative society of those times outside the family ridiculed it.
Vocational training in those times was dismissed as a stupid idea. Most people regarded a government job as ‘secure’ and a ‘privilege’. MLR found that the rich were not willing to come forward to participate in the rehabilitation scheme mooted by him. But some less privileged ones volunteered to offer free lessons in the craft they excelled in. Some women decided to teach sewing and cooking as a means to help earn a decent meal a day, if not two.
My grandfather launched the plan with his own resources which started showing results after a few glitches. The survivors were overcoming their traumatic silence. They were regaining their lost confidence. Marketing of their products and services began fetching the much needed money. It showed on their gleaming faces. Humanity woke up in the otherwise apathetic privileged ones. They came to MLR with offers of financial help. Some skilled artisans came to offer their free services. Thereon, on an average, most “students” stayed for about three to five years and once fit mentally, physically and equipped with an art, would move on. But importantly, some like Arjun and Seema decided to stay back as teachers.
As I turned over the yellowed pages of the hand-written diary, I found hundreds of thank you letters and notes addressed to my grandfather for changing their lives. MLR eventually died a happy man. My father told me that some of the benefited later came to our place to express their gratitude to their benefactor. As tears slowly swelled my eyes, I held the box close to my heart and slowly drifted away to sleep.
Lalit Raizada is a journalist based in India.
