In these difficult times, I’ve been thinking about my grandfather a lot who, at 92, must have seen almost all human misery that there is, and who, without a doubt, is the “most interesting man” I know. His life is just absolutely fascinating

The many faces of my grandfather. Born in the 1920s, he ran away from home at 13 to work in a traveling dance troupe in rural Orissa. Sweeped the yards for an erstwhile king. Worked in the railway engine yards of Chittaranjan, west bengal. Then a bengali theater in Calcutta.

Studied, became an engineer. Married and raised four kids -- my mother the eldest of them -- through 3 wars when he slept with a "1 meter long sword" under his pillow and painted his windows black.

Learned to be fluent in over 6 languages, acted in a regional TV series at 70, and then ran away (again) to live in a remote ashram in northern India at 85. He returned home complaining they didn't serve non vegetarian food.

Born under the british era, he struggled to balance his larger than life Indian persona w/ the understated british sense of decorum. His favorite expression of displeasure ranges from a loud & public chiding to writing courteous letters to lawmakers.

At a hotel recently, I took him to a fancy tea room where he wanted to have “chinese tea” -- all his life he’s only ever had the regular indian “chai”. Didn’t like it, so here he is trying to file a formal grievance.

The fact that I keep a stubble is eminently disturbing to him. A man must be clean shaven, he maintains.

Always a class act, grandpa never leaves the home dishevelled or his bed unmade. We took him to lunch one day. He got ready, sat down to get photographed, saw himself in the pic and noticed his shirt isn't well ironed so here he's getting changed again. Instagram star.

Though he later became an engineer, theatre arts was his true calling. Here, in his 70s, he’s playing lord Shiva in a theatre, & also him, 20 yrs later, explaining to me why he is an artiste, not “just an artist”

Grandpa has almost no short term memory, a fact that is ironically not lost on him and a fact he sometimes takes advantage of. One day he saw my grandma moving about the house, pointed at her and asked, "who is she?", before laughing at his own prank.

He is happiest when he’s the center of attention. He can hardly hear much and is usually quiet, but put him in front of a crowd and he becomes all at once eloquent, energetic and happy. Here he is in full karaoke mode singing an old odiya song to his audience.

And that's when you realize how much in love he is with his youth, and the life he made for himself, and how terrible it must be to see his mind walking three steps behind his body and breath.

Here sleeps my grandfather and with him sleeps over 90 years of memories. He is no longer able to remember whether I am just visiting him or I have always been living in his house. I tell him I never left and that I will be here when he wakes up. Sometimes forgetting is a mercy.