Playing our roles... 100%

On February 26 this year, my dad passed away. I got the news from my mom at 5 am while I was in a hotel room in Oxford, just about to start my morning yoga. Although my dad had been unwell for several years and had been in and out of the ICU for several weeks, we were hopeful that he would bounce back – as he always did. But in the moment that I received the news, the feeling that crossed me was deep pain – I had chosen to come to Oxford to deliver yet another talk than to go home to be with my dad in what would have been his last moments.

For weeks after, I wondered whether he had waited for me and left when he couldn’t hold on any longer. He had had advanced dementia for years, and over the last 2-3 years, he had been forgetting things immediately after they occurred. Yet, I couldn’t help wondering – had he been mentally fit, would he have asked me to come and be with him or to “focus on my work” – a mantra I had heard from him my whole life. When I would visit him in our home in Bangalore – twice or thrice a year for a couple of weeks – I felt his joy when I sat next to him and gently caressed his bald head. But despite his mental ill health, within a short while of my sitting with him, he would repeat his mantra – “Go do your work. Don’t waste your time.”

This was the mantra that guided his whole life. The day he passed away, the Minister of Science of the Government of India tweeted about my Dad, describing him as a “hard work taskmaster.” He was a scientist and medical doctor par excellence, having published in top journals, including Nature, and had conducted pioneering work in community medicine. He worked closely with the National Human Rights Commission and the government authorities on numerous occasions, to somehow make India’s public health programs get implemented more effectively and efficiently in the farthest corners of India.

My father loved his little luxuries – Swiss cheese, Lindt chocolate, Mishti Doi, eating, every now and then, at a high-end restaurant. A large framed poster that hung in our home in New Delhi stated “My tastes are simple. I like to have the best.” This described my father’s taste in everything, ranging from food to music. But his heart was with the poorest of the poor people whose lives he wanted to improve at any cost. He conducted his research in the most remote unknown regions of India – places that suffered from endemic goiter, radiation, or extreme fluoride content in groundwater – public health issues that hardly ever see the light of day or get featured in top research journals. He was an expert in diabetes and could have minted money through private practice – but he chose to spend his working career, till the age of 65, in the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS), catering to the poorest patients and conducting research for the benefit of forgotten small communities.

He expected the best from himself and his students. He also expected the best from his family members. To say that he was short-tempered would be an understatement – ask my 10-year-old self – I shuddered at the very thought of Dad’s disapproval. I also grew up really unwell – under constant stress – frequently suffering from bronchitis and asthma – perhaps, in part, because of the suppressed anxiety and fear of my Dad’s anger. But no one could doubt his intentions – he used his quick temper not to acquire things for himself, but to bring (long-term) benefit to others. It took me several decades to understand and appreciate this.

Would I have liked him to be more kind and inspiring, yes, undoubtedly. But over the years, aided by my yoga practice and the teachings of Gurudev Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, I have learned that each of us is playing a role on this planet. The more we can feel compassion, be in acceptance, and, where necessary, in forgiveness of others’ actions and words, the more we can appreciate people for the role they have been chosen to play. This acceptance is the route to transformation – within ourselves and in others. It is with this deep acceptance and compassion that Gurudev has been able to resolve long-standing conflicts – whether it be in Columbia with the FARC leaders, or in India with the Ayodhya dispute.

A day before Dad passed, I was sitting in the London Eye with my daughter. As the capsule we were in started moving away from the ground, I remembered an incident from my very early childhood. My parents, sister and I were at a small children’s fair somewhere in Delhi – I may have been no older than 4 or 5 years old. There was a Ferris wheel – perhaps not even 1/10th the size of the London Eye - that my sister wanted to ride. Although I was far from keen, we all immediately bought tickets. My sister was sitting with my mom and I was with my dad. I was very anxious in any fast-moving object at that time – still am to a large extent – and although this Ferris wheel was far from “fast”, within seconds after it started, and well before it took up any speed at all, I started screaming at the top of my lungs overtaken by mind-numbing anxiety. My dad immediately sprung to action. He started screaming even louder to get the attention of the person running the wheel – I think it was largely done manually in those days – sometime in the early 80s in India. So loud was Dad’s shouting that the man had no choice but to stop the wheels, turn them backward, and let us off before continuing.

My dad used his aggression to bring me back to a feeling of safety. He did not care about what the others would think and he did not try to use logic to make me accept the situation. His way of expressing his love was not always pleasant – but that he loved his family dearly was beyond any shadow of doubt.

It was with this same passion and, yes, also aggression and often short temper, that he worked to improve the lives of the poorest and most downtrodden sections of India. From talking in strict and severe tones with scientists and journalists writing against the salt iodization movement he pioneered in India, or calling to attention the inaction of government authorities failing to implement public health programs, my father never regretted speaking his mind or raising his voice. ?

It was not that he was not aware of the ill effects of his bad temper. He learned yoga and meditation and also practiced meditation regularly with a clear conviction that if there was any way out of his temper, it was this. Unfortunately, he did not have the good fortune to have a living, enlightened teacher to guide him on his journey out of this temper. Perhaps for this reason, his success with his meditation practice was limited. Undoubtedly, those of us who lived closest to him suffered as a consequence. But looking back, I observe, know, and feel that his temper did more good than bad – especially for the world at large, and the poorest segments of India’s society in particular.

Perhaps Dad’s soul was proud that I chose my work over my emotions on the day of his departure. Or perhaps his soul reconsidered the choices he had made, the things he had prioritized in his life, and the values he raised his children with. These last few months have been a roller coaster ride for me as I reconsidered my own priorities and life’s goals. ?

At his cremation, my Dad was given a State salute from the Government of Kerala – the State that he was born in, and wanted his last rites to be performed in. I too salute my Dad’s life, everything he was, and everything he lived for. He lived his life 100%. He played his roles 100%. Leaving room for neither regret nor reconsideration. ?

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti