There is a brown-colored folder, or rather a long wallet in my cupboard. With metal tacks and corners, it has a label printed out with the name of the previous owner. The edges are fraying and the thread with which it was sewn is slowly wearing away. It is not merely a wallet but a storehouse of memories, of a beautiful bond, of a person who made me who I am. It is my most prized possession.

 

As I put the day's earnings into it my eyes linger on the passport sized photograph peeping at me from the flap on the left side. The plastic covering that window has also yellowed, but the face and smile behind it are very much recognizable. I remember that picture being clicked. It was for his new pension account. Apparently, it had to be upgraded every few years. We drove to the photo studio, our favourite photo studio, together. It was our go to place for all pictures through various stages of our lives. The photographer set up the chair and once my grandfather, Baba, was seated and had posed, gave him the cue of “ready”. Baba had immediately smiled, and the camera had set off in flashes. “Done sir," the photographer said, like he had achieved a mean feat. “Pick up the pictures tomorrow”.

 

This was during an era when we could not actually ‘see’ what the photos would look like. We had to merely accept them as they were or get a new set. The next evening when we had the photographs, I burst out laughing. It was a passport size picture with Baba smiling broadly. “How will you give this to the bank?” I questioned, hiding my grin. But my grandfather was adamant that he would use this set. “It’s alright they will look at my silver hair and not say a word.” “But you are smiling…official pictures don’t have this…”my protests were brushed away. His passbook and most other documents thereafter had this most uncommon kind of a photo pasted on it forever.

 

I now pulled out the picture from its resting place and looked at it carefully. My eyes blurred the image of his silvery mane. Grief still had a strong hold on me. It always hit me stealthily at the most unlikely times.

Neither Baba nor I remembered how he came to own this leather wallet of his. It was just around for as long as I could remember. Maybe even before my arrival in this world. It had three sections, which made it perfect for my non-existent financial planning skills. I divided the money into three parts and pushed the currency to each section. Earlier in life, Baba had tried to teach me financial management.  After a long trying session, he gave up on his expert bookkeeping knowledge and put facts across simply. “You are hopeless!” His disgusted expression said it all. “Just divide your earnings into three. One part, reinvest in your clinic, one part as savings and one for expenses.” My pathetic math knowledge accepted this easily and it has since been my only financial planning technique. I'm proud to say it actually worked out well thus far. Once I finished putting my day’s earnings inside the wallet, I tried putting Baba’s picture back, but there was something obstructing its smooth placement. I poked around a little and found a paper shoved at the back. With some difficulty I managed to pull it out. It was a 100 rupees currency. Grief was now stuck in my throat as a lump I could not swallow. I recognized this currency and could not believe he had kept it so safe. I turned it around to check the last two digits of his sequence. ‘30’. I gulped the lump forcibly and wiped my tears. It was the year of his birth, 30, this was the same currency. This money was a part of my first earnings. A fee of Rs 200, of which I had offered Rs 100 to the almighty at a temple and this 100 with the special number was sent to Baba wrapped in a paper from my own letterhead.

He had kept it safe all these years and unknowingly I had too. I quickly put it back into the wallet and leaned against the wall. I needed this support. The memories were coming back too quickly and too many to handle at once. Like dominos? Yes, maybe.

 

Grief sneaks up behind us and grabs us by the neck. It shakes us up and when we struggle for breath, it lets go and walks away as quietly as it arrived, leaving us exhausted.

 

My grief was a quiet companion always.

 

Before I put away the wallet, I looked at the photograph one last time and smiled. I could hear him say, “it’s time….it will pass.”

 

It does. Time passes. We stay rooted. To moments. To memories, to loaded wallets and passport sized photos,  and to the little things that make up the larger things in life.