Red roses and hills

I'm five years old, confused and sleepy. It's been a long drive up
cragged hills of reddish stone, dry and hot in the barren summer season
of my country. A country i know very little about, except that it's
called Pakistan ......"The Land Of The Pure",and all my aunts and
uncles live here.We fly here every year or so in a big airplane and i'm
thrilled whenever the holidays start because i like coming here! I like
playing with my cousins, the sons of my mother's brother who is my
favourite uncle. What i don't like is when Dad says we have to leave
the big and noisy city where they live and go see my
Grandparents,uncles and aunts on his side of the family.That's where we
are now.

My Grandparents live in a tiny village,up in the hills with the red
stones.Their house is strange and uncomfortable.There's a big courtyard
in the centre and rooms built all around it.The only stairs around lead
to the roof.Grandma cooks in a tiny kitchen on a little stove. Grandpa
goes to work every morning.He's a Hakeem.My father says that's someone
who makes medicines out of plants and leaves to cure people who are
sick.I like Grand pa even though he's so quiet and never jokes or
plays.He has a big white moustache and his pockets always have sweets
in them.......Honey flavoured and juicy!

I'm confused and scared today because we've driven up the hills in a
hurry and everyone's quiet. I heard father telling my teacher back home
that his father had died and we had to leave but i didn't understand.He
didn't mean Grandpa did he?Now i'm looking around at all the tired
faces and i can't see him.He's probably gone to work and he'll come
back soon, tapping his way into the courtyard with his big walking
stick, his hand in his pocket ready to pull out our sweets.

Slowly everyone wanders off; it's late and they have to sleep.Mother
takes my brother by the hand and beckons me into the house.We're in the
lounge and there's the old blue sofa with slightly yellowing white lace
throws over the back. Grandpa would sit there to eat his lunch,mopping
up the curry with bread and we would giggle to see him.He'd watch us
out of the corner of his eye and smile to himself and when he finished
pull us into his arms for a hug.Grandpa's not there but there's another
old man.

A man even older than grandpa.......i know because his shoulders are
bent and his hands shake far more than Grandpa's ever did.Father takes
me by the shoulders and presents me to him speaking in Punjabi,the old
language he's told me is our "mother tongue".I don't understand it but
i wish i did, it sounds so fast, sharp and yet singsong. Then father
tells me this is our Grandfather too because he's Grandpa's elder
brother and he's come from another village.He tells me "Big Grandpa"
would like me to sing him the song i'd learned at school that week. I
didn't feel like singing but i knew i had to be polite so i put my
hands behind my back and sang.........
"When the circus comes to town,
I love to see the clown
Racing round the great big top
His trousers falling down!
A very jolly fellow
He loves to sing and shout!............."And so on till i got to the
most silly part where i had to sing "Ha ha ha" about ten times.When i
got to that part my cheeks started burning the way they always did and
i wished i could stop but i was too polite
I had barely got to the third Ha when Big Grandpa reached out and
pulled me to him and i felt his wet bristly cheek next to mine. That's
when i realized that Grandpa wasn't coming back.

It was a long, quiet week we spent in my father's childhood home full
of strange new faces bustling about.On the last day father took us to
see Grandpa's new grave.We prayed around it and the air was thick with
the scent of the roses that were scattered on the earth.Father said we
wouldn't ever see Grandpa again in this world, until God called us all
back to Him.I was ok with that......... I thought i could learn some
new songs to sing to him and Big Grandpa.