Savita Dubey
New Delhi [India], October 8: When I think of my grandfather, one of the first memories that comes to me is of him holding our school notebooks in his hands. He would open them in front of visitors, point proudly to our handwriting, and say that it was as neat as a typewriter. We were simply three little girls doing our homework, but the way he spoke about us made those ordinary pages feel like something remarkable. He noticed our effort, celebrated it, and made us believe that what we did mattered. That was how my Nanaji loved us.
Outside our home, people knew him as a charismatic, disciplined, and highly respected man. His reputation reached far beyond our town, and he had friends among leaders from different political parties. Wherever he went, someone seemed to know him or remember something he had accomplished. At home, however, he was the grandfather who picked us up from school, played cricket with us, and took personal responsibility for our safety, education, and upbringing.
He had clear rules. We did not go to friends’ homes, and television was mostly reserved for the news. People sometimes asked us, “How do you all live under this curfew?” I still smile when I remember that question because, from our perspective, we were having fun. Others saw a strict man and imagined a childhood filled with restrictions. We knew the affectionate grandfather who enjoyed spending time with us. Our home had rules, but it also had laughter, games, and the comforting certainty that we mattered to him. We knew we were loved while we were living it.
At a time when girls were too often treated as a burden, my grandfather cherished his only daughter and his three granddaughters. His belief in us was never limited to words. Whenever he came across an article about a girl achieving something through education, he would bring it to us. He wanted us to see what other girls were doing, how far they were going, and what education could make possible. I was too young to understand the full meaning of those articles. I probably read some of them and quickly returned to whatever I had been doing. Yet he kept showing them to us, and without realising it, I began to imagine a larger future for myself.
Long before I had achievements of my own, he was proud of my effort. Long before I had the confidence to describe the woman I wanted to become, he was helping me believe that I could become her. Children remember being noticed. They remember when an adult treats their small attempts as something worthy of attention. Looking back, I can see that much of my confidence began in those ordinary moments with him. He taught us through his words, but even more through his actions. He showed up, paid attention, and cared deeply about the people we were becoming.
There was another part of his life that I understood only much later. My grandfather had an extraordinary ability to build relationships. People remembered him, respected him, and remained connected to him. I watched this throughout my childhood, but for many years I assumed it was simply a gift that belonged to his personality. He was naturally comfortable with people, while I believed my strength was working hard. I thought that if I studied enough and did my work well, everything else would follow.
Networking made me uncomfortable because I associated it with conversations over drinks. As someone who did not drink, I often wondered where I fitted in. Then, at business school, Professor Massimo Massa reminded me that I could network over coconut water if I wanted. It was a simple comment, but it stayed with me. It made me laugh, and it helped me understand that I did not need to become someone else to connect with people. I could listen, ask thoughtful questions, share what I knew, and allow relationships to develop naturally.
As I became more involved in business advisory and professional services, I began to understand what my grandfather had demonstrated throughout his life. People need confidence in your knowledge, but they also need to feel comfortable bringing you their questions, worries, and uncertainties. That trust grows through attention and care. Many of my most valued clients and collaborators entered my life through conversations. Whenever I reflect on those relationships, I think of my grandfather. I had watched him build connections for years without knowing how much I was learning from him.
Now that I am raising daughters of my own, I recognise his influence in even more parts of my life. When I notice their effort, I remember the notebooks he proudly showed to visitors. When I encourage them to study, I remember the articles he brought home for us. When I try to protect them while also helping them grow, I think about the responsibility he accepted so willingly and the joy he found in caring for us. As a child, I received his love without understanding everything it required. As a mother, I have a deeper appreciation of what it takes to provide that sense of safety and belief.
If someone asks whether I miss him, my answer may sound surprising. I do not feel that he is far away. His memories return in the middle of ordinary days and make me smile. A decision brings one of his lessons to mind. I hear something in my own voice and recognise where it began. I feel him in my love of learning, in the pride I take in doing my work well, and in the encouragement I want my daughters to receive from me.
I will always remember the respected man whom so many people knew, but the grandfather I carry closest is the one who picked us up from school, played cricket with us, and held our notebooks with pride. He saw promise in three little girls and made sure they could see it too. He nurtured me into the woman I am today, and every time I give my daughters a reason to believe in themselves, I carry a little of his love forward. That is how my grandfather continues to live in me.
Disclaimer: Views expressed above are the author’s own and do not reflect the publication’s views.
