In the fag end of my life, I often find myself trying to go a little beyond my strength so that I may be of some help to my family. Like many old people, I do these little things without expecting much in return. Yet, I must confess, there are moments when a simple word of gratitude, left unspoken, leaves behind a faint shadow of disappointment. But ... ...
Yesterday, Fortune, which usually forgets old people, knocked gently at my door. I received what I can only describe as the highest award of my life - one for which there is neither a medal nor a citation, but which I would not exchange for either.
My 8 year-old granddaughter Yahraa had a school assignment, to write a letter to the person who had inspired her the most. With the generosity peculiar to children, she announced that the choice lay between Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam and me. I silently suspected that Dr. Kalam had the better qualifications; but, as she quickly pointed out, he is no longer here to receive letters. So, by a happy accident, the honour fell to me!
In the letter she is taking to her teacher, she writes that she loves and admires her grandma for helping her with her studies, for teaching her the strength of prayer, for instilling good values, and for quietly caring for the whole family. She says that her grandma is more precious to her than diamond.
To the world, it may be only a child's homework. To me, it is a lifetime achievement award. At this age, when one begins to wonder whether all one's little scoldings, stories, prayers, and patient explanations have been of any use, a single page written in a child's hand can settle the matter. I have decided that if gratitude ever goes unexpressed again, I shall simply take out that letter, read it once more, and feel wonderfully overpaid.
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