When he won the state assembly elections for the first time, I was two.

He walked up to my mom and told her, ‘You got me my lucky charm.’

I was his lucky charm, thus.

Being born, and living in a house that buzzed with the thrill of ‘rajniti’; the smell of power strong in the nostrils - old men, good men, veterans, the been-there-seen-it-all’s of ‘satta’, clad in pristine white Kurta and Pajamas – all flexed and spaced out on a power trip, their high contagious, such that I involuntarily stole into the sitting room each time a ‘sabha’ was convened in my Grandfather’s sitting room, (which was more than twice in a day) – and I made myself cozy behind his ample back and lay there playing childish make belief games – mention of arcane and difficult words, much removed from my limited, infantile vocabulary - drifting in and out of my ears – I got addicted to their high when I was rather young.

Tall, indecently fair, stately, handsome - one of the handsomest men I have ever laid eyes on – a man of Khadi who role modelled the Mahatma at an early age - and turned out to be quite a stellar protégé, Dadda, is the star of my life.

Humble beginnings make a man.

I have learnt that truth now.

For the same reason I now know that a certain greatness will never been mine to call my own – mostly because I am not made of the stuff Dadda is made up of.

Deep in the outback of Rural UP, a typical North Indian village saw a Vaidya ji sitting up in his baithak with his bahu, (wife) – at the crack of the dawn this little water hole in UP came to life – life doesn’t stand still even here – the morning smells are addictive – the confused crickets still chirp as their sounds are drowned out by a stray cow moo-ing, lazy ducks paddling in the pond behind their house – the village folk rising – much before the sun, and getting about their daily grind... the thick smell of dust kicks up in the environment and this picture freezes in a frame of pre-independence India.

The Vaidya ji, my great grandfather wonders out aloud if their oldest son will make it to the seat of the Village Head Master... Such a relief to their household economy if their oldest born would garner enough education and pave way for the marriage of the three sisters and the education of the younger son.

They worry, but the lady of the house has full faith in her oldest son. She knows a kuldeepak when she sees one.

Post Independence saw Dadda hold his little brother’s hand – bhaiyya – the typical UP form of address for anyone older or younger; the twosome, thirteen and ten (I’m not sure) trudged twenty miles to their school with boarding facilities – young boys out to become men.

Studying under the dictatorial rule of a cantankerous Master, (Dadda still remembers him fondly) – wincing as the cane ruler cracked at their knuckles – at sunset Dadda, thirteen himself, cooked a spare meal of aloo, daal and roti for the duo.

And this is how they earned themselves an education.

But the Vaidya ji’s dream remained unrealized.

For Dadda severed the umbilical cord at the early age of seventeen, though he carried his native village in his heart, and stormed off to the nearby city – and to the capital thereon – his sultry, aggressive wife at his side and his younger brother in tow.

Living on a paltry sum of rupees 25, in a one room lodging in a the ghetto like part of the town, Dadda made sure that he funded well for his brother’s education, while his wife went about setting him a house where he could come back to and share a decent, humble meal with his immediate present family.

Done with his B.A, he went on to learn typewriting and did some sort of Secretary’s course – the next thing he knew was that he was the secretary to the Chief Minister of UP (name eludes me – the events in between aren’t so clear in my mind. Of course, it’s my legacy and I didn’t pay attention, so irresponsible of me.)

The sense of respect was strong for the womenfolk, a good father teaches his son well – never calling his better half by her name, ‘bahu ji’ (dadda’s wife, my grandmother) soon found herself busy with a son (my dad) already. Two daughters and two more sons followed and Dadda’s world grew in leaps and bounds.

He helped his younger brother get into one of the most prestigious Technical Institutes of the country – I.I.T, got him married and provided well for him. The younger brother stood true to the Vaidya ji legacy and went on to become one of the most esteemed Chemistry Professors of the institute with his children finding their way in the Indian Administrative services, and other spreading their wings wider and spanning oceans and lending their intellect to the land of the brave and free, ultimately making it their home.

Dadda, meanwhile was getting intoxicated with the smells of power and rajneeti, finding his way through the power corridors – he moved his family, bag and baggage to Luck now and told Bahu ji to take care of the household, while he decided to jump headlong in to his chosen coliseum.

A strong man – finds a woman to reckon with – that’s Bahu ji’s story but then she deserves amplified attention – let’s just say that she strung her pallu around her shoulders and tucked it in the folds of her sari at her belly and went about making sure that while their father was busy, tending to the society – her own children lacked nothing.

Well provided for, the usual way the Politicos and their deputies are – she still wasn’t investing her hopes in the unpredictable waves and machinations of a public life – she set up a business of her own with one of Dadda’s friend and took charge of home and outside.

Dadda meanwhile was busy giving a wider dimension to the Vaidya ji’s dream – not your usual manipulating, unscrupulous ‘politician’ – he was one of the old stock.

Always itching to learn some more – he waded deeper into the intellectual gamut of stalwarts like Bertrand Russell, George Bernard Show, Martin Luther King, M K Gandhi, Mirza Ghalib, Rabindra Nath Tagore... The quench for knowledge was limitless and he devoured books on religion, philosophy, politics and public administration, poetry, literature and much else.

Attaching himself to secular ideologies at the very start of his political journey, he stood tall with his ideals overshadowing any nonexistent personal interests that never created a moral dilemma that postured itself before him to reckon with.

His rustic upbringing, humble beginnings and the strong moral fabric intact – he often told stories about the fire shows that lighted up his village sky when India got it freedom at the stroke of a certain midnight hour – the pall, and the haunting melody that rung wildly across the plains when a loved Mahatma was shot... the worth of an Anna and how it was rendered worthless – the village fair and rustic legends that came to life as his eyes sparkled when he told me stories of yore...

... just as when he told me about meeting with Indira Gandhi and having dinner with and her addressing him with, *his first name* - posing with Nargis and Sunil Dutt and getting tens of framed copies and hanging them all over the house – hobnobbing with V P Singh on a first name basis – (right at this moment I perk up and spew a volley of epithets at the said name, thanks to a certain Mandal madness but smooth, as he is – he sidesteps me and carries on his litany of glory) – his fixation with Medha Patkar and her cause – they’re friends – his rendezvous with Dilip Kumar  - his affiliations with businessmen, rich and famous and influential who fund his various ‘dharna’, ‘chanda’ drives... and a jamboree of high and mighty names, VVIP visitors streaming in our house and me, clambering atop him and settling myself between them and Dadda...

Or... sitting in his makeshift office on the roadside – when Bajrang Dal vandalized the party office – I remember - him fuming, and ranting that nothing stops him from doing his brand of ‘netagiri’ – and he and his cohorts had another makeshift office on the roadside ready – in no time – ‘gaddi ko kheench sakate hain, zameen thodi kheech sakate hai hamare neeche sey...’ – his lesson is well learnt.

Canvassing for his second round of elections was fun. Straddling the backs of party workers – wearing white shorts and white shirt and running shoes and going on cleanliness drive with brooms in the sordid-est parts of the city was greater fun.

Watching people – especially Muslims – with his affinity with the minorities (as he believes they are) – and getting all princessy around him – while everyone treats him with a humane deference and amplified respect...

Getting my ear boxed when I ran up to him, once, and announced that I was going to read, ‘The Man Who Killed Gandhi...’

Or being awoken by the shrill screeching of the phone – with the city police commissioner on line – asking my Dad to hand over the phone to Dadda – the horrid eve of Babri Masjid demolition...

Walking in the ‘shadow’ of shadows – when Dadda was in threat – and piggybacking Dadda and riding his ample stomach and oiling his head when the killer migraine struck...

Sharing Black Forest pastries with him and posing for pictures with him in one of many of his press conferences... asking questions to which he had no answers – and sometimes giving him answers when questions eluded him...

Typing out his press releases for him – or begging him to come to school to collect my report card because the results weren’t the sort I would like to share with my mom and dad.

Being harassed by him for talking on phone for lengthy hours and being dissed at him when he insisted that he would ensure that my friends’ rich daddies donated enough ‘chanda’ for his latest drive...

Naturally inheriting his lust for knowledge and his power trip – watching the world with constant amazement and watching in fear when he was being force fed by the authorities when he sat himself down on a fast-until-death drive during some crazy riots in the city which saw poor men’s shops being burnt down... he was asking the state for compensation which eventually came – the cost was a little bit of self respect.

Oozing confidence because a lucky charm has to be nothing short of stellar and confident – and getting contaminated with his curiosity and desire to sit in a position of power – respect – grandeur.

Reading out books to him and watching him take small breaks and then resuming reading because reading and learning is the only thing he knows – bad eyes are just incidental and an unnecessary complication.

I guess I will stop now.

Dadda is good man. He’s out of the running league now – but he is a league of his own – like I said, the good stuff – the old stock.

He reads, and involves himself deeply with his second oldest son who’s walking the line his father did. Legacies abound where I come from.

But the son is no match for the father.

The father belonged to the old stock – the real stuff.

The stuff real leadership is made of.

A dying breed now.

But all that’s secondary for me.

Dadda, still handing over everything he has, to Bahu ji, gets dressed up in his Khadi whites and rushes off the library most afternoons – he’s friendly with the cute young thang there who finds him the most thrilling authors of all times and then he visits the party office – listens to FM and meets up some old timers and discusses what  netas do.

He does Yoga at five in the morning and sometimes freaks me out when I wake up with a start and see him perched on the diwan snorting and doing his Yoga moves.

Like always – I only sleep with Dadda when I go home and often shake him up rudely when he snores too loud.

He never tires of telling me stories and make me search up an assortment of who’s who on the net... and goes on in a rewind instantly and in no time we’re kicking up letters from this and that and scourging through pictures...

He still makes reference calls for people but never for family and always goes nostalgic when a certain Vaidya ji’s mention is made...

He calls the Vaidya ji, Dadda.

He wonders if the Vaidya ji was angry if he didn’t make it to the Village Head master’s seat...

I wink at Dadda.

He asks me to oil his head.

He then hugs and kisses my head and tells me, ‘I’m lucky to have a granddaughter like you, I got my win when you decided to turn up - you’re my lucky charm...’

I look at his face, such a handsome face, goddamit!

‘Hell no, Dadda,’ I lock my gaze with his, and tell him - assert, ‘the lucky one is ME, through and through.’

Love you, Dadda.

 Posted Originally at: http://supriya.blogliterati.com