Why am I writing this? A person passed away exactly ten months back. The worldstill goes on, nothing much has changed. He just happened to be one more commonman; soon forgotten in the busy world.But the person had spent seventy five summers and surely must have had his story, hisshare of trials and tribulations, his victories, his triumphs and hopefully his impactand foot prints on the sands of time. It kind of seems unfair that a life of seventy fiveyears had nothing to write home about. Being the son of the seventy five year old person I am compelled to write at least a few words before every memory of myfather fades off and every thing is forgotten.My earliest recollection of my father (anna) is when we together “made our beds”every night. I was probably about 4 years old. He would sing bhajans (Hindu holychants) as a part of his daily prayers and meticulously clean our beds every night byremoving the bed sheet, cleaning, dusting and tucking it. Those were the days whenwe didn’t have very effective mosquito repellents and a mosquito curtain also was part of the daily routine of cleaning beds. He would sing a line of the bhajan and Iwould repeat after him. Children are not supposed to enjoy cleaning especiallycleaning their own and their others beds. We would together make all the beds everynight and not once do I remember to resent it. In fact, I used to look forward to thistime together and making beds never seemed like a burden. No other description of him would fit him better than being very gentle almost to the point of this being a defect. He would never confront any one very much. He never physically, mentally, emotionally hurt any of us brothers. In fact, I never evenremember him to have been very angry at us, he would just get irritated and would getfrustrated but none of that ever went over the top. He was never condescending, never made us feel small, in-adequate, guilty. He never had his way or the high-way philosophy. He never forced his opinion on us. I guess that installed in us a sense of self-confidence. He never shouted at us and I guess that allowed us brothers toexplore our own paths.He had a good sense of music and a melodious voice. His favourites were traditionalkannada folk songs which he was never shy to present us during extended familygatherings or official parties much to my mother’s embarrassment. “Rayaru bandaruMavanu manege”, “chaluvayya chaluvo”, “mudala maneya muthina” were hisspecialities. He also liked some hindi film songs “meherban likhoon, haseenalikhoon” being his all time favourites. He also sang “I used to ask my mother” popular western songs demonstrating once again his open and accepting nature.He was deeply spiritual, religious and family oriented. He would read many religioustexts and especially his favourite Gita and perhaps make meaning of the world andwould passionately lecture us regularly during dinner discussions at home like “whatis happiness”, “what is life”, “what is karma”, etc. He would celebrate all of our festivals with detailed pujas and mantra’s and we as a family always looked forwardto these. I think to a large extent he followed he tried following the higher calling of humans. He was greatly influenced by Gandhi’s philosophies like “Simple living,high thinking”. He would regularly give us many inspiring stories of Gandhi and Nehru.
Pretty incredibly he never spoke ill about any one. We never heard him do that. Hewould actively discourage us doing that as well. This would almost cut out the scopefor any gossip (and spice, make conversations very dry) and chit/ chat at home about people. I never heard him talk ill about someone behind his back, never very judgemental about people, allowing him to live in peace.He believed in cleanliness is next to Godliness and took lot of efforts to keep hissurroundings clean and healthy. I had never seen him not wash his hands beforeeating, he would always meticulously make sure that all the food in the kitchen andthe dining table was covered at all times. As his depression took hold he startedneglecting this part of life and it was cruel fate and irony that he had to be diagnosedwith TB in his death bed.Talking of ironies – it was almost like a culmination of ironies towards his end – heloved walking, he used to walk perhaps 7 KM at the age of 70, at a pretty good cliptoo, we couldn’t hold him at home, he was as if a man on wheels. He would be readyto have a 12 hour, 9 to 9, on the road when we went on tours that put the rest of usyounger guys to shame. In the end he just hated to walk, he couldn’t, we had toliterally push him. He loved to eat; he literally didn’t eat anything in the last fewyears. And as I think through, on and on we can go.He always believed that we must be well read. When we were in Assam in a smallmilitary cantonment I remember him getting abridged versions of classics from theoxford press in Kolkatta. How I loved those beautiful series of small books that hadeverything from Shakespearian classics to lives and stories of freedom fighters andreformers of India. He loved proverbs and some of his favourites like a stitch in timesaves nine, one can lead a horse to the water but thousands can’t make it drink, timeand tide never waits for any man, and so on and so forth. He was not some one whowould speak a lot but these proverbs would be sprinkled and appropriately used in hisconversations. Amar Chitra Kathas and “kagadada papachi” were some of the stories Iwould urge him to tell innumerable times.We were a pretty sick family (literally speaking!) and visits to the doctor for mymother’s health as well as for the three of us, were frequent and must have beendraining physically, mentally, emotionally and of course financially for my father.Since my mother was sick most of the time all the burden pretty much fell on him. Inever once remember him complain about it. It is not as if he liked it, nobody does, but he discharged this as his duty the same way he would do his office work. Having ason who had a heart problem, having a still born son, having premature twins whostruggled to survive, they had convulsions as babies, all this stuff can break any one.He never talked to me about my heart problem; I guess he himself didn’t know whatto say. Those were the pre internet, pre wiki, pre google days, and I guess he onlyhoped and prayed, visited many specialists, many alternate medicine doctors, manygurus to seek blessings and good luck. That kind of an uncertainty can be a spiritdampener, but he just went along, hoping and praying. He never complained, henever moaned, he just took life as it came and he was grateful.He didn’t understand money very much. For him it was simple. “Cut the suitaccording to the cloth”, was his motto. He believed in living within his means. Hedidn’t have many needs and fortunately he had a wife who echoed his feelings in this
matter. He didn’t save much, but we led a decent life. Never short of anything that wereally needed for our daily lives. When I got married he asked Veena, my wife, aquestion “do you think savings = earnings – expenses or expenses = earnings – savings” and Veena answered it correctly. Since we didn’t have too much money nor many needs we never spent time talking about money during the days that we grewup. How different is our conversation these days when a lot of our time and energy isspent talking, discussing, thinking, loosing sleep about money.When anna was home one could almost be certain of enough stuff to munch at home.Those days we didn’t worry too much about the intricate details of physical check-up.I never remember my parents to have taken one unless they were sick. So we haddelicious savouries from the bakery, the ever present fried snacks in India, biscuits,etc. the motto was pretty simple, don’t eat too much of oily stuff and you will be ok and it seemed to work for him. So evening tea/ coffee at Pune was a great affair, thefamily gathered on the terrace sit out, the weather would be pleasant and windy, the back drop of the western ghats, garam tea/ coffee and some delicious snacks to eat.We would all chat about some irrelevant topics like our studies, friends, neighbours or such. How peaceful and relaxing those days were! He liked good food and was quiteexperimental. This was amply evident when he checked out spicy Punjabi delicaciesat the Nirula’s, Thai in Dallas, Vietnamese in LA, Chinese in Vegas, Mexican andTex mex in San Antonio, bagels and coffee in NY or good old pizza and burger in Niagara. From simple salted roasted peanuts on the roadside in Bangalore to exoticMexican stuff in San Anton he loved them all!!He was a very proud father of a son who went to IIT. He took every opportunity to letthat be known to people. During my IIT days he would come to Delhi on officialwork. He had a luxury and comfortable guest house accommodation that he could use.But most of the trips he chose to stay with yours truly in the hostel that was a far cryfrom the comfort that he could have the guest house apart from the potentialembarrassment it could cause to both of us. But we didn’t care. We would go toKishan Lal’s, the famous canteen in the premises and go to dinner and movie at the Nirula’s at Chankya. In the small hostel room I would offer to sleep down while as hewould take the bed and God knows how much I loved it. His trips would typically lasta few days and once he left I would be miss him for a quite few days till thecamaraderie of the hostel made you forget these sensitive things. I would go back home to Dehu Road, a small military settlement about 40 KM from Pune. My father’soffice was Pune and he would commute in the local train. People who have done thiswill vouch that it is a pretty exhausting experience for a youngster and can bechallenging 50+ year old guy. And the last thing any one wants to do is a round triptwice a day once to the office and once more to drop your son on his trip back to thehostel after the breaks. He would come back passed mid night after dropping me anddid the office trip again early morning with not much sleep. He would insist oncoming despite me trying to dissuade him. This was his labour of love and to this dayhas remained a very warm hugging memory of his love for me.I think he didn’t get much positive nourishment for his spirit. His relationship withmy mother was OK, nothing to write home about. I never remember them fighting a
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Why Am I Writing This? a Person Passed Away Exactly
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