The Swing of Life

I’ve been spending a lot of time, this summer, sitting on a swing at the playground while my sons bike up and down a little hill there with a vengeance as if someone is going to be really mad at them if they stop. I close my eyes and swing gently and it instantly transports me to a soothing world where I am floating in beautiful rhythm, in predictable smoothness. It took a few times to realize why the swinging motion seemed so familiar to me. And then it came to me in a flash. My grandfather!

Let me explain….

During my childhood in Karachi, we lived one street away from my grandparents’ house. They lived in a large house with three of their grownup sons and their sons’ families; a very traditional extended family. We visited them every evening and often had dinner there before heading back home.

My grandparents’ house was always abuzz with activity. The daughters-in-law spent half their lives in the kitchen preparing food, cleaning rice and lentils, cutting volumes of unripe green mangoes for pickling, churning tamarind in large pots for deliciously sweet and sour chutney. Everything was made from scratch and was made laboriously and lovingly. Every time we walked into the house, someone was cooking or preparing something in the kitchen that smelled delicious.

The sons came home from work in the late evening, right around the time we often visited. They would deposit their empty silver tiffin (lunch) boxes on the kitchen counter and go straight into the family area to see my grandfather.

My grandfather had a commanding presence in the house. No one dared to enter the house without first going up to him and greeting him. He ruled the house from his swing. Yes, his swing. He spent much of his time sitting or lying down on a wooden swing, the size of a twin bed. It had a tight fitting, soft pad and cylindrical cushions and was right in the middle of the main hallway of the house. It was attached to the ceiling with thick, braided iron chains. When it was empty, it looked absurd. When my grandfather sat on it, it looked like a glorified command post and checkpoint all in one.

All the grandchildren started their lives in his arms, swinging gently for their daily naps. When they grew older, he would grab them as they walked by and demand that they push his swing so that he could take his nap. They would all try to avoid him and the tiresome swing, but it was right in the middle of the house and there was no way to go in or out of the house without going by the darn swing.

He held vehement political discussions with friends while sitting on that swing. Sometimes he would argue with his children and the swing would reflect his temper, going higher and higher as he got angrier and angrier! No one ever questioned his authority and more importantly, no one ever questioned the swing.

Food was one of his greatest passions. He would demand that we try new things and we all did because we dared not disobey him. I fondly remember his love for mangoes in the summertime and how he’d suck on the mango pit, mango juice spilling out of his mouth onto his lap. He looked so happy while he was doing it that it didn’t even seem gross at the time!

Most of the grandchildren were terrified of him, but I loved him especially because his eyes always softened when he saw me. He would grab me and call me a “princess poppity poppet” – he loved to rhyme things in a silly way - and give me a huge hug and kiss. He always told me that I was really a princess and some day my true identity would be revealed and everyone would be sorry for treating me like an ordinary person. I believed him. I try telling my husband that sometimes and he rolls his eyes at me and says, “Sure. Are you going to weed the flower beds now?”

On the rare occasions when he left town to travel for his work, the grandchildren would all pile onto the swing and pretend it was a school bus. I remember those swing rides so vividly. One of the older grandchildren would push it as high as possible and then with the final push, jump onto the swing with a well practiced leap. We would all close our eyes, six or seven of us crammed onto the swing and giggle hysterically until one of the daughters-in-law couldn’t stand the noise anymore and then she’d beg us to get off and threaten to lock us all up in the store room where the “jinn” lived, if we didn’t listen.

In the early part of 1987, my grandfather became ill suddenly and within one week he had passed away in the hospital. We were in shock. How could someone who had always been so alive now be dead? It seemed unreal. The swing lay empty for the longest time. It was painful to even look at it. Then one day, we came over and my grandmother was quietly sitting on it, carefully on one side as if she was scared to take up too much room. Eventually they took the swing down and all that was left were the four stubs from the chains that used to hold it to the ceiling.

The house was never the same after he died. His absence could be felt everywhere, and without his commanding presence, the extended family structure slowly collapsed and the brothers each moved into their own, separate homes.  The house itself had to be destroyed because the foundation was slowly sinking into the ground. It was as if it couldn’t even stand in place without my grandfather.

When I think of my grandfather, I always think of mangoes bursting with ripeness. I think of his loud voice and his gentle smile. But most of all, I think of the swing and how he conducted his life from there. Sometimes, I wish I could get rid of the sofa in our family room and replace it with a giant swing…I wonder if it changes one’s perspective in some way? How would it feel to ride through all that life offers, in gentle motion? I close my eyes, sit on the playground swing and dream….