The Life of a Father and an Old Man

Yesterday I was overwhelmed. All the past memories, which I thought were obsolete and stored beyond oblivion, came back alive. I laid down on sofa; TV ran mute over a corner table; old laptop’s lid was open on a teapoy; my glass of beer was near empty; and my eyes were half open. It was like ages. I was not to be blamed though. My poor and hasty decision was.

Yesterday was Father’s Day. So I thought I’d write something like I did on Mother’s Day. Something emotional and true to heart. I was sure that I could write up about my father for pages. He is such an interesting character afterall. He has spent his whole life in a small village, but has an excellent taste for knowledge and childish eagerness for traveling. He has grown up in a traditional Bramhin family, but turns out to be an atheist and complete devotee to reason and science. I have seen, people and my relatives are terrified at his high temper and loud presence, and at the same time are relaxed for his superman-wise ability in handling their problems. I have seen, my mother is completely hopeless and aghast for her husband’s absolute denunciation for mindless social rituals, but at the same time is in pure love with him and proud for his honesty. Yeah. I could write about that all. But then I thought of me, and him. And there was nothing, except huge sadness. And I regretted for my decision.

I thought about his expectations, the thing he wanted in me, and the thing I’ve become. I remembered his long walks on a mud street towards his little shop next village – stories which covered the lives of great men and women of history. The mighty Roopnarayan river flew side by side of that elevated mud path and like in a dream, I watched those great men and women walking alongwith us. And now I looked at me. Nowhere near to his expectation.

After an hour of futile efforts of writing few lines, when my laptop went into sleep mode and I closed my eyes, resting my dizzy head over two pieces of cushions on sofa, my mind took a whirlwind. It all came back like a movie. I was on his shoulder in my first day of school, and then several times during annual village fairs or theatres. I was in his protective strong hairy arms while learning swimming, and then riding on a bi-cycle and then thourghout my life. I was in his warm embrace when I was ranked first in class, and then second and third, and then got a low job. Well, he was and he is always with me. All the time. But am I?

I never acknowledged his unbelievable sacrifices in educating us, going against the tide of village. I never tried to understand him, even for a moment and rather blamed him for being an obstacle in my growth. Last time he came to Delhi to stay with me for one month, I even accused him as a wrong decision maker. Though I apologized later, but certainly it wasn’t enough. It didn’t do justice. The harm was done.

Now he is sixty-eight years old. Still he works on his make-shift garden on roof under scorching sun, he repairs his house alone often with rookie plumbers, he talks loud with his strong opinions, and he doesn’t listen us. Irony is, he’s much more active than combined us. And probably ‘his-being-this-active’ isn’t quite acceptable to us. We probably want him ‘old’, like others at his age. Little walk and rest on a chair, reading books or watching TV and all. But he’s out of herd.

And I’ve just taken his love and care for granted. He’s father, and he’s supposed to do that -  sort of thing. My eyes were closed, but I could feel they didn’t want to. I reached for my mobile, lying somewhere over the wooden teapoy. And when I dialed his number, saved as ‘Baba’, he picked up after fourth ring. His voice was deep and heavy.

“Hello”.

“Baba. I’m Naru”. I choked a little.

“Yes babu. Are you okay?” He was both delighted and worried.

“Yes baba. I’m fine. Just wanted to talk with you”.

At that moment of late afternoon, I could see him – probably lying on his bed with a crumbled newspaper beside his pillow and my mother sleeping beside him, resting her hand on his chest.

I have seen them taking afternoon siesta countless times, but never I imagined they were this beautiful.  

Happy Father’s Day