Every family has its stories. The ones repeated often – passed from generation to generation, stories you know so well but insist on it being repeated again just for the peek it offers into the life of your ancestors. Stories that seem so off-landish and impractical in today’s world. Stories about the crazy cousin twice removed, the mad cap uncle, the family pet that followed the children home and so on.

It was the same in my family. I grew up listening to these stories from grandma and grandpa. I know them so well but I ask them to repeat it often just because it brings a dreamy look into their eyes as they remember their childhood, the family home, their siblings and their lives long before I took over it!

One of my favorite stories is about my great-grandpa – “maltova” thata as I remember him. He used to have a bottle of maltova on his bedstand and I remember running to him and asking for it and he would measure exactly one spoon into my outstretched hand. It was a delicacy, carefully preserved and licked off the palm.

Maltova thata in his youth was quite a character it seems. One of my granny’s favorite memory of her father revolved around the Chevrolet he owned in those days. Thata was a racer in the roads of the small town he lived in creating quite a ruckus. His favorite race competitor was the train driver. Driving along road parallel to the the rail track, and pressing hard on the accelerator gave a kick to my great-granddad. As a kid, this fascinated me. I used to vividly picture, tree-lined streets, the train sprouting a cloud of black smoke, the trademark grin of my great-grandfather (courtesy the picture we have of him, unfortunately I cannot remember his face at all), and the thumbs-up sign (as reproduced by granny) he used flash at the train driver as he sped past the train.

And years down the lane, I was running late for the class. I hate being late to anything. I take pride on my punctuality and unfortunately a late evening meeting was making me run late to a class. Between glances at the clock and the speedometer I covered the miles to my destination. The road through my destination runs along a rail track and just before reaching my destination I had to cross the tracks. And to my horror, I see a train chugging along merrily and I fume. Unless I beat the train and cross-over to the other side before the train crosses, I would be late by nearly 30 minutes – a scenario I really did not want to happen and without questioning myself or rationally thinking, I stepped on the gas.

With my right foot depressing the accelerator, eyes drifting between the front of the road and the rear-view mirror watching the train I moved on! I felt a rush as I crossed the tracks before the railway arms came down and I let out a breath I did not realise I was holding. I felt like rolling down my window and giving a thumbs-up to the driver and then the story came alive – the 1950s (?), a deserted road in small town Tamil Nadu, a Chevy, Maltova thata, a train and the same thumbs-up

May be there is a little bit of of my great-grandfather in me? Who knows…