The Empty Spot
Our house has been the center of a million memories.
The upper left corner in the little sitting room on the ground floor had an even smaller spread occupying a rectangle, two pillows stacked against the adjacent walls, and a coarse, warm blanket folded on one side. It was the perfect corner at just the right angle from the TV, and kept one cosy from the draught coming in through the door. Bathed in the late afternoon sun, it remains perfectly preserved in my memory; still, calm, quiet.
This was the designated spot Prof. Mohammad Hussain Nahvi was regularly found occupying in his quaint house in Srinagar. A favourite of his grandchildren, you would often find a little head poking through the zip of his pheran, or someone huddled within a blanket on his lap. When he would be off attending to the many activities that kept him busy throughout the day - long walks, tending to the gardens, reading, praying, or DIY-ing solutions to all sorts of rickety problems around the house - this spot would attract the fancy of all the little ones passing through, a coveted prize. I would angrily guard it - no one else was allowed to sit there except Dadaji. That little spot glowed warmer than the rest of the room.
That corner of the room was well lived-in. Scattered around the immediate boundary of the floor spread were the habitually used belongings of my grandfather. There were broad windowsills stacked with old newspapers and books; there was a cupboard built into the wall, carrying all sorts of knick knacks: diaries he had written mobile and telephone numbers in, ration booklets he was safe-guarding for others, the Quran he recited every morning and afternoon; a spare lightbulb here and a makeshift pen holder with a kangar czalan there - solutions just an arm’s stretch away. There was the landline telephone on the right, him the overseeing guardian, always enthusiastic to converse with his loved ones. Just beside him on the windowsill rested his topi, well-travelled to the masjid and never off his head for long. Over there were his glasses, big and brown. He kept a nail cutter nearby, a pen always within reach, spare change permanently housed on the second shelf of the cupboard. It was a place of habit, of comfort. He would receive guests there, reminisce with old friends there. It was the heart of the room, and you would often find us gathered around an off-center dastarkhwan, chatting away, my grandfather at the head of the gathering.
Later in his life, as old age interfered with his physical activities, this designated spot moved to a sofa chair in the opposite corner of the room. It was as lived in as the spot on the floor had been, everything he needed carefully placed on both sides of the sofa. The stories continued, the family expanded, and his great-grandchildren got to play around this new spot. It moved once more, to another sofa, now in a different room in the house. This place was less marked, less lived-in. Less him.
His designated spot moved one last time within the house, to the upper left corner of another room. This time, it was a bed, surrounded by all the life-giving medical necessities, and everyone who loved him. He passed away on October 25th last year and moved to his final, eternal resting spot.
I remember many things about my grandfather, and I wish I had known some more. From the patient, intelligent professor and the doting, caring grandfather, to the wise, loving paternal figure and the dependable, humorous companion, my grandfather meant different things to many different people, and he has touched the lives of so many more in his years on this earth. We have been gathered, telling his stories, remembering his habits, exchanging his advice. Missing him.
I find myself often drifting to his many spots around the house, remembering him in his daily comfort. When he would be bent writing in a diary, or poring over an instruction manual. When he would patiently pace the gardens with his hands clasped behind his back, or sit soaking in the sun on cold winter afternoons. When he would put on his glasses and have the newspaper spread out in front of him, or when we would all have chai in the mornings, and I would choose a warm, trosh-kander-czot for him.
Our house has been the center of a million memories, and he will always remain at the heart of them all.
