My grandfather, whom we fondly called “Tatya,” passed away when I was very young. My memories of him are scattered—like fragments of an old film, faded yet warm. I remember him as jolly, effortlessly cool, and full of life. He was fair, bald, tall, broad-shouldered, with a generous belly that somehow added to his presence rather than took away from it. He always wore a thick pair of spectacles — I can’t imagine him without them. Years later, those very spectacles would lead me back to a life of his I had never known. 

As a child, I often wondered if I’d grow up to look like him someday. The men in our family all have flat feet, for instance — I found myself wondering what else I might inherit, physically or otherwise. He loved dogs, cooking, playing bridge, and above all, enjoying himself. In some ways, I think I’ve inherited parts of him. Certainly, his love for dogs and perhaps a bit of his ease in the kitchen. There was something about him that always felt polished, almost worldly, perhaps because he had lived a life far beyond what most in his generation experienced.

My mother often tells me how he would make mutton patties — a quiet nod, perhaps, to his hamburger days in the US, or how he would indulge in things people in Pune (where he spent the rest of his life after returning) found “odd” at the time. Things like adding a scoop of ice cream to his coffee, doing his own gardening, and above all,his unique way of doing things that was intentional, distinctive and entirely his. 

I remember him listening to ABBA, my sister dancing beside him as he smiled along. And I remember Rex, the German Shepherd he loved dearly. 

The story goes that sometime in the late 1940s, in the years just after World War II, as India stood on the brink of independence, Tatya travelled by ship to the United States to pursue his Master’s, and later a PhD, at Berkeley, in Agricultural Economics. He came from a very modest background, and much of his journey was made possible thanks to the support of well-meaning relatives, scholarships, and his own relentless hard work. He took on multiple odd jobs to sustain himself in a foreign land. He stayed there for nearly nine years before returning home. Back in India, his wife and young son (my elder uncle) waited for him, their lives connected only through letters that took weeks, sometimes even months, to arrive. 

How he managed to secure admission to one of the most prestigious universities halfway across the world in the late 1940s, or how he truly survived those years as an Indian in the US, when such a thing was still a novelty, remains a mystery to me. What I do remember are fragments of stories, passed down through family, only half-formed in my memory. One that has become family lore is about him getting stranded in the UK on his way back, playing bridge competitively to earn enough to get by, and eventually buying a ticket to continue his journey. 

Perhaps these stories are only partly true—I heard them as a child, after all, and retellings have a way of turning reality into something that borders on myth. 

But one thing was certain—he’d lived a life far from ordinary, adventurous in ways I could only begin to imagine. A large part of that life still remains a mystery, since I never got to hear those stories from him directly. 

Sometimes he would show up unannounced under our building, carrying a bag of meat for my mother to cook her famous mutton curry. Somehow, she always knew he had arrived, even before he rang the bell, just from the sound of the lift doors opening two floors below. I never quite understood how.

Another  time, he took me for a haircut: a task I absolutely hated. Five-year-old me cried and threw a full-blown tantrum until he finally lost his patience and scolded me. But afterward, he felt so bad that he took me on his scooter to a “novelty shop” and bought me soft, chewy almond sweets. Those novelty stores felt special back then. Tiny, glass-shelved worlds where you could find fancy imported chocolates, video games and perfumes, things that felt just a little out of reach. 

It was the kind of childhood we had in the nineties — Bournvita in steel glasses, cricket in the gullies, TV antennas that needed adjusting mid-match, cold Rasna on summer afternoons, the occasional Thums Up at a birthday party, Dekh Bhai Dekh re-runs and copies of Famous Five and Reader’s Digest lying around the house. 

I can still picture that fancy bag, filled with individually wrapped golden cubes, each with an almond printed on top.  The feeling, much like their taste, was sweet, comforting and unforgettable. 

Somewhere between outgrowing school uniforms and summer vacations, we lost Tatya to cancer. 

I was in California, a year into a Master’s degree in Information Systems at Santa Clara University. My journey there had already been anything but conventional.  After spending years working in Indian films, assisting directors, acting in films and commercials, being a creative producer and trying my hand at storytelling, I found myself stalled indefinitely. With the uncertainty of the post-pandemic film industry becoming increasingly exhausting, I decided it was the right time to pursue a Master's degree and broaden my career horizons. That somehow led me to a summer internship with a creative agency based out of Los Angeles, where I could straddle both worlds. 

Since the work was remote, I decided to move into a small house tucked away in Montclair. A quiet escape from the bustle of San Jose felt like exactly what I needed for those months. Montclair felt like a place suspended in time—a quiet hillside neighborhood nestled close to Oakland, California, where winding roads cut through dense trees and everything seemed to slow down. Mornings arrived wrapped in fog rolling down the hill slopes. Deer wandered freely, as if they belonged there more than we did, and the silence carried a strange, almost comforting stillness. 

Montclair was just a short drive from Berkeley. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if, subconsciously, I had been drawn closer to a place that held so much of my grandfather's past. At the heart of it all was a small village, quaint, self-contained, with bookstores, cafés, and a charm that made it feel like a world of its own. But I would often make the journey to the main parts of Berkeley—for groceries, the gym, café hopping or sometimes for no reason at all, just to walk its streets and wonder. 

Everywhere I went, I noticed things—benches, bars, buildings—with dates from the 1930s and 1940s. I kept wondering if Tatya had been here too, walked these streets, or sat where I was sitting. On weekends, I wandered through the Berkeley campus, imagining what it must have been like for him. An Indian man, alone in a foreign land in the 1950s, decades before globalization made such journeys common. 

I thought about how homesick I had felt when I first moved to the US. I was 18, leaving home for an undergraduate degree at Purdue University in a small student town, in West Lafayette, Indiana. Back then, staying in touch with your friends and family back in India took effort—we would coordinate over email, fixing a time when both sides could be online for a video call. And on other days, there were calling cards with limited minutes, where conversations were hurried, reduced to only what mattered most. Yet, what mattered most was often the hardest thing to say. Instead of admitting how much we missed each other, we settled for familiar questions. What time is it there? Is it too cold? Have you eaten? How are your classes?

Tatya had had none of this digital convenience. I found myself thinking about the letters he must have written; letters that took over a month to reach home. Letters my grandmother would never let anyone else read, keeping them entirely to herself. Instead of burning them, which she believed was inauspicious, she would soak them in water until the ink faded, preserving the paper but erasing the words. 

Memory without language. Presence without voice. 

I’d also heard that after he left, she stopped using her right hand altogether, managing everything with her left for those nine years. When he returned, she had to relearn using it, making her wilfully ambidextrous. I often wonder if that story is entirely true, but even the idea of it stays with me. Would anyone today be capable of that kind of quiet, unwavering devotion? 

At the end of my summer internship, a week before I planned to leave Montclair, I found myself unusually nostalgic. I walked through Berkeley one last time, carrying a quiet longing I couldn’t quite place. I felt a growing need to know more about him. 

That night, I had a dream. My grandmother appeared before me—clear, vivid, more real than any dream I had ever known. She’d passed away many years before, which made the moment feel even stranger, almost impossibly so. It was the first time I had experienced something like this. She was smiling, draped in a soft baby blue sari, just as I remembered her. We spoke for what felt like a long time, easy and familiar, filled with happiness and laughter, though I can’t recall a single word of it. 

Except one. 

“Keep Tatya’s chasma with you,” she said. I woke up, startled. Then, like most dreams, I let it slip away.  

A couple of days later, while casually speaking to my father on the phone, the dream came back to me. Almost instinctively, I asked him if anyone in the family still had Tatya’s spectacles. 

He paused. “I have them,”

The fact that, out of four children, their spouses, and eight grandchildren, my father was the one who had them felt too portentous to ignore. 

When I told him about the dream, he simply said, “When you come back, I’ll give them to you. Maybe he wants you to have them.” 

Something about that stayed with me. 

Before hanging up, I asked him another question. Could he recall any details about Tatya’s life in Berkeley? 

He was born a few years after Tatya had returned to India, so naturally, he didn’t know much. And since Tatya had passed away when I was very young, I had never thought to ask my father about that part of his life. He seemed surprised by my sudden curiosity, but after a brief pause, one particular name came back to him: Walter Hayes. He remembered that Walter would write a letter to my grandfather every Christmas.

I Googled the name online - “Walter Hayes + Berkeley University”, and, to my surprise, soon found an address listed in Berkeley. It was just a ten-minute drive from my home in Montclair. But, given the time that had passed, I assumed Walter may well have passed away. Could he still be around, well into his nineties?I decided to stop overthinking it,  got into my car and put on an ABBA playlist on Spotify.

As I drove through the winding roads, the sun began to set. There was a quiet urgency within me, something pulling me forward. Every turn of the road heightened the anticipation. I wasn't sure what awaited me, but it felt as though I was being drawn towards something larger.

When I reached the house, I paused. It was beautiful—mint green with white windows, on top of the hill, a few steps leading up to a garden that seemed untouched by time. A large tree stood in the yard, with a wind chime gently ringing in the evening breeze. 

It felt cinematic. Almost unreal. I climbed the steps and knocked. 

No response. The door had frosted glass panels, just clear enough to glimpse the inside. I could make out an old man on the couch, resting—perhaps asleep. I knocked again, louder. Still nothing. 

A strange thought crossed my mind. Perhaps I had been brought here for a different reason altogether. My heart raced. I wondered if I should reach for my phone to dial 911.  

Then, suddenly, I saw movement inside. The old man stirred, startled by my presence. He opened the door cautiously. I introduced myself and explained why I was there. 

“Do you know someone named Walter Hayes? I think he used to live here…”

He studied me for a moment. 

“Yes. Unfortunately Walter passed away last year due to COVID. I’m his brother-in-law,” he said. “Who are you?” 

When I mentioned my grandfather’s name, something shifted in his expression. 

“Wait, are you Lala’s grandson?” he asked. I remembered that was what they called him. Another vague memory from my childhood, resurfacing suddenly. I nodded. And just like that, the door opened. Not just to the house, but to the past.  

Walter’s brother-in-law welcomed me warmly. 

The house felt lived in. Old furniture sat alongside lamps and plants, with upholstered chairs, thick carpets, and large french doors that opened out to a deck overlooking the San Francisco Bay. In the distance, I could faintly make out the skyline. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the room slowly filled with a warm, golden light. 

He began telling me stories—how, as a child, he had watched Walter, my grandfather, and their group of friends spend time there. How they had built parts of the house themselves. How they would cook Indian food, gather on that very deck, play music and watch ships drift across the bay. Much of the furniture, he said, hadn’t changed since those days. So this is how the house would have looked even when my grandfather was there. Almost seventy years ago! 

When I stepped out onto the deck, I saw the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Built in 1937—I realised that it would have probably looked exactly the same to Tatya too. 

A quiet chill ran through me as the warm summer breeze picked up, raising the hair on my arms. For a moment, everything felt strangely peaceful. I could almost see him there. Young. Laughing. Living. 

In the days that followed, I connected with more of Walter’s family. His daughter, now retired and settled in New York, sent me original prints of old photographs — black-and-white images of my grandfather and Walter’s family, all young and smiling. He looked sharp in a suit, laughing with his friends, completely at ease, like he belonged there. They were in the same house’s yard, fashioning turbans out of a sari. There were also photographs of him outside another house, where he’d probably lived. 

In those photographs, I began to notice something familiar; the same features, the same ease in his posture, the same traces of expressions I had seen in my aunt, uncles, cousins and even myself. 

On the back of each photograph were handwritten notes. Dates, places, small details from where the pictures were taken. It felt like I was being allowed to be privy to a part of his life that had long remained out of reach. I also reached out to the university and found articles and records about him: things he had said at conferences, his thesis, even notes from field visits his class had taken. 

Among the archives was an old yearbook photograph of the University of California Students Association of India. There he was, seated among his classmates—a young Tatya, in a crisp suit decades before I had ever known him. Piece by piece, a man I had barely known began to feel real.  

I realized then that some journeys are not ours alone. They are carried forward through generations—through memory, instinct, and something deeper we don’t fully understand. A simple urge to know more about him led me to owning tangible memories from the past, memories that had been waiting for nearly seventy years. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was him, reaching back.  

Today, those photographs sit with me—black and white, edges worn, moments preserved. In an age where so much of our lives are endlessly documented online, there was something profoundly moving about holding the very prints my grandfather had once held in his own hands. He had written on them, scribbled notes on the back in his own handwriting, and someone had carefully preserved them, never imagining that nearly seventy years later they would find their way into mine. No digital archive, however convenient, could ever recreate that physical connection across generations. Behind the photographs, I can see his handwriting, from a time when he was about my age. 

I also have his spectacles, from much later in his life. I often think about the choices I’ve made. Leaving for the US at eighteen, finding my way into acting, writing, films, and storytelling. I used to think that none of it quite fits the mold I come from. And yet, in some meandering way, maybe it does. 

A friend told me recently that we carry generations within us. Seven, he said. Our ancestors' instincts, their risks, their talents and their unfinished journeys. I don’t know how true that is, but I think of my grandfather, crossing oceans in the 1940s. I think of my great-grandfather, on my mothers side, writing textbooks in Maths and Grammar. And I wonder if, in some quiet way, several of my ancestors' lives have found their way into mine. 

Maybe I’m just a continuation of something that began long before me. And maybe, somewhere far ahead, someone will look back at my life and wonder the same – whether our journeys were the same, and how it all came to be.