MAY I INTRODUCE YOU TO MY FATHER..?
a) A month, today, since Paa. In the last 31 days, i have found it inconceivably hard to put down even a word about him. Writing about him feels like letting go. Writing about him feels like an endeavor to process the grief - the only thing that connects me to his (lack of) physical presence in the material universe, an act I can ill afford. Writing about him feels like an act of betrayal: an attempt to express the ineffable. We were beyond father and son. We were beyond friends. We were beyond being a single unit. He was one half of my meaning, my purpose and my raison d’etre.
b) Even so, given that what is left of him is our collective memories and given how much he enjoyed meeting strangers and given that we tend to forget stories when we don’t tell them, maybe a sneak peek into my inner universe is in order.
c) On these pages, I have frequently written about my father. Of never having individuated from my parents. Of how the only thing that stood between me and liberation is my zealot like attachment to Maa and Paa. What was a hypothesis is now a lived experience. The only source of peace that I have access to in this moment is knowing that I received every last ounce of love that he had to offer. That I chose to spend my entire adult life with my parents. That i maximized my time with them, while I still could.
d) When I am not trekking the unscalable mountain of grief or navigating the ocean of limitless gratitude, I am present to the singular succor of knowing that he was fully in receipt of the depth of my love for him and that he could fully rest in the knowing that his love for the force majeure of my very existence.
e) Paa was a people - lover, first and last. Love was his primordial instinct, trauma response and force of habit, all rolled in one. He got lucky. His extraordinarily high capacity for love met its match in the numerous people that magically manifested in his life and could receive his love. His circle of love extended far beyond his immediate or extended family. For some, he was a father figure. For others, he was a co-conspirator. For many more, he was a friend. And that’s to speak nothing of how he would find a way to connect deeply with kids half and a third my age. He was defenseless in love - a quality that I only ever saw in this one man.
f) Paa was a life enthusiast. He would think nothing before getting on his bike and riding a few hundred kilometers. He was never intent on arriving. The journey is what he pined for. The journey is what he signed up for. The journey is what he lived for.
g) Paa had three unqualified gifts. He could make anyone feel special about themselves. He could give people what they wanted without even him knowing what it was they were looking or indeed that he was giving it. He was unselfconscious in a way that I only aspire to be.
h) He loved Animal Planet, Discovery and National Geographic. He loved the outdoors. He was fabulous at flying kites. My childhood is replete with memories of him making ‘manja’. He would go all the way including the shards of glass in the mix of the manja that gave the thread the ‘cutting edge’. It also meant that he frequently cut his finger on the first long flight of the kite to dry the thread.
i) He once saw me fly around the cricket ground taking two impossible catches. It is my favorite memory of playing cricket.
j) In the last 5-7 years, he eased into becoming my mother’s executive assistant. From lighting the diyas in the pooja room to making khakras and juicing fruits to taking her to a new temple every day of the week to being a willful sponge for mum’s existential angst. When I was young I remember them having pet names for each other.
k) For nearly ten years in his thirties and forties he struggled with mental health and depression. He was misdiagnosed and prescribed SSRI’s that are now banned. One of my most meaningful life experiences was helping him wean off the ani-depressants over three years, in the process giving himself - and us - a new lease of life.
l) Four years back, he was diagnosed with late stage heart disease. 100% blockage in two of three arteries and 98% in the third. A dozen cardiologists said he wouldn’t survive a month without a bypass that should have been done yesterday. Even those that swore by angioplasty and were generally against the bypass said his case really did demand an open heart surgery. He didn’t fear death. He feared going under the knife. He had a mortal fear of the ventilator. He couldn’t bring himself to take care of his health, was even cavalier about his carelessness. He loved life but he was intent on living only on his own terms. The story of my life - in the last four years - has been about keeping him alive.
m) He was the first one to say sorry. His willingness to apologize - as frequently, as publicly and as openly - was as disarming as it was moving. I have no desire to romanticize his anger which was never an easy experience for any of us. Moments of pure, unadulterated, distilled, if misdirected rage. But if you had to get angry, he is what you want to be. A force of nature, if there ever was one.
n) He never forgot those who helped him. He never let them forget that they had helped him. He never let us forget that they had helped him. Eventually, those that helped him felt indebted to him.
o) Over a thousand people chose to pay their last respects in person on the day he passed on. Amongst the first that lined up were watchmen, waiters, auto-drivers, flower-sellers and small business owners - people that my father befriended, helped and took care of all his life.