Joy Salve: An Obituary by a grandson.

My memory fails me but I can only see flashes of moments.

Him feeding me varan-bhaat (dal-rice) after I returned from kindergarten.

Teaching me ‘Yeshu tumhe bula raha’ while he played the harmonium.

Him following me as I sped away on my tricycle on his evening walks.

Sharing two half-glasses of sugarcane juice after the cycle ride was over and I was famished.

Always walking with quick steps, as though refusing to give in to senile decay.

His ever present smile that sometimes vanished when India lost at Hockey or Cricket. Hockey defeats would hurt a little more. He used to be a centre-forward himself.

The jokes and incidents he would always repeat and laugh heartily each time he recounted them.

Him kissing me as I left to be with my nuclear family, he’d always have a little bit of stubble that would prick a little. But over time, that came to be his identity to me.

Each time the whole family was together, he would insist we have prayer time before dinner. Most of us grandchildren would roll our eyes; stop all the fun we were having and troop in quietly, just because he said so.

It wasn’t fear. It was just adoration.

My grandfather, Joy Samuel Salve, passed away on 14^th October, 2010 due to renal failure.

He was 91.

His last days were inactive as he was bed-ridden. But he had already lived a life that would make his creator’s heart swell with pride.

Some one eulogised at his funeral that he was never seen empty-handed, always distributing tracts containing the gospel of Christ.

Once someone asked him, “Uncle, do you realise many people trample these tracts underfoot, not even bothering to glance through it? He replied, “A hundred might trample it underfoot, but at least one of them will read it.”

He left an indelible mark on my life and the surprising part was, he did it without even trying.

The seeds of faith that he sowed in me when I was toddler have taken firm root within, the songs he taught me move my heart each time I sing those lyrics, always praying, always questioning his loved ones and their little faith, always putting God first in times when God is often the last resort.

I didn’t weep when they brought in his body or when I dressed him in his best suit or even when he lay peacefully in his coffin at the cemetery chapel. But before they had to pick the coffin to take it near the grave, I broke down.

At that moment, phrases like ‘boys don’t cry’ and ‘be a man’ meant little to me. I had to mourn and let out the grief I thought I was handling well till then, sometimes concealing it under all the pre-funeral running around.

I realised how much he meant to me and the difference he made to my life.

My faith is too small and his shoes are too big to fill in.

I’ll miss you Azoba. Always.