By Raffique Shah
October 30, 2024

I felt like Marlon Brando must have done in the opening scene, I believe it was, of The Godfather as he stuttered in his trademark nasal tone, issuing instructions from the Godfather to generations that would run the mafia after he was gone. No, I was not about to die or anything as dramatic as that.

Rosina had favoured us with that last farewell a few months ago, teaching us what the finality of death means: no more giggles, no more hugs, no more warmth—nothing as dramatic as that. It was a gathering of Generation Y of the Shahs, that my youngest brother, Feroze, thought we should assemble at my bedside for the youngest offspring to enjoy each other’s company, but most of all to give me an opportunity to see, hear, even feel these young ones, who have already staked their claims for leadership of the clan when I and my siblings and in-laws will have moved on.

I am the eldest—almost 80—among a generation that started sometime in the middle of the 20th century. My siblings, all four of them, are still alive, maybe not kicking, but certainly lucid and physically capable of lending their knowledge and experience to whatever discussions and conversations we have on such occasions.

One of my two sisters told me recently that Ma, had she lived past 2012, would have seen and enjoyed interacting with 18 great-grandchildren. The family home in Beaucarro that my father Haniff built circa 1960 has withstood the elements and occasional storm, as well as severe earthquakes. My earliest childhood memory of earthquakes was my sister, Jinnahroon, and I sitting on a bench merrily swinging our legs when suddenly our legs were swinging us. Earthquake. We screamed. But before any damage was done, that earthquake, like many others, did not reach destructive level.

So Generation Y, which will undoubtedly face severe weather patterns that may yet do damage to the structures built by their foreparents, were assembled in our house and I watched them to see how they fared in this age of instant communication and all that meant. A few had their faces virtually buried in their device screens, but those were the little ones. I should add that my granddaughter, Lara, was not present, and the relatively short time I have to be part of their upbringing does not allow me the luxury of helping with their education—and I use this word in the broadest sense.

As I wrestled with the symptoms of Parkinson’s from time to time as we conversed, I tried to assess the development of some among them who are in the fifth percentile, as assessed by the education system. Lara, for example, when she entered secondary school over two years ago, noticed from the school’s information board that they were accepting entries in an essay competition. She entered and would go on to win the top prize, which was quite an achievement. In the face of intense studies she must undergo to cope with the curriculum at school, she devours books which are so easily available for her generation when compared with mine.

Sheeth, one of my grand-nephews—we call him the “big-word” man—will never settle for a simple word when a complicated one would suffice. He recently confronted Feroze, his grandfather, with a sentence containing the word egregious, sending him scampering to find a dictionary to find the meaning.

Then there is Maryam, a sweet child, if ever there was a sweet child. Maryam’s intellect is often hidden by her shy disposition, but she can be devastating when it comes to her exams.

As the gathering moved on, I watched my nephews and nieces who are the parents who raised these bright children. None of them are wealthy, they all had to fight to get a place in secondary school and then work hard to make it through tertiary education. Camilo chose engineering, which he seems to enjoy. Fayaz, my nephew, is one of the foremost agriculturists in the country. In fact, he currently works with one of the regional agencies that focuses on food security in the Americas.

As I watched them on Thursday night, I though of one progenitor, my father Haniff who could not read or write when he married Ma in 1922. Ma helped Pa so that later in life he could read, sign his name and become somewhat literate. Many uncles and aunts, most of them semi-literate, focused heavily on their children’s education. They also ensured that discipline was critical to their offspring’s development.

When I compare my family’s humble beginnings with others, especially the more recent generations that have been exposed to free education until post-tertiary level, I sometimes wonder what excuses they have for not becoming productive and positively contributing to the further development of their country.