I am sitting on his shoulders as he strides towards some unknown destination. Happy to just go wherever he is taking me. At some point he wants me to start walking with him. I protest and he holds my hand and coaxes me into walking. I am holding a paper bag full of goodies we enter a hospital room and my mom is there with my newborn brother.
We are at a picnic and he is looking mad because an uncle does not want us kids to eat pakoras while sitting in his new Fiat car.
It's a cold winter night and the whole family is cuddled up in razais. We are chatting, arguing, laughing, fighting. His voice is always the loudest and his laughter is the most infectious.
Bedtime stories are his experiences of the partition and the Korean war where he was part of the Red Cross Medical Corps.
We are in the front garden of our Chanakya Puri house, its a holiday and he decides to race my brother and me. We laugh more and run slow.
Aunty B regales us with her stories of going on shikars and shooting sambhars and tigers. I ask him why he doesn't go for Shikars. The hardworking Dentist looks at me strangely. Then tells me he did go hunting once. "Did you shoot a tiger?" I ask.
"No."
"A bear?"
"No."
"Nothing?" I exclaim!
Reluctantly he tells me the story of his first and last hunting trip. "We were in a jeep when we spotted a beautiful deer grazing peacefully under the trees. We stopped. My friend picked up his rifle and took careful aim. The air was still. The forest was silent. No one spoke. I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and then...I coughed loudly. The startled deer leapt away and the bullet missed its mark.
I am aghast. "But why did you do that?" He looks into the distance - "the deer was so graceful and its eyes were so beautiful how could I let anyone shoot it."
It's 1970. Conservation, global warming, and animal rights are not part of my vocabulary. In my child eyes, my dad is a fallen hero. He let the deer go.
He helps me study for a biology test. I get top marks.
He loves classical music. He goes to sleep whenever he hears the Shehnai.
His prized possession is a record changer on which we can load 8 LPs at a time. Every once in a while we roll up the carpet, put on some music, and dance. My mom and he twirl around in a slow waltz. For all his bulk, he seems to float.
On summer holidays, he wakes us up at the crack of dawn to take us swimming at the defense officers club. We spend the mornings diving, splashing and running around the kidney-shaped pool.
He learned to swim in a fast flowing canal next to his village in Goindki (now in Pakistan). In the pool, he goes from one end to the other without a single splash.
Impromptu holiday plans see us piling into our moss green Fiat and heading to Shimla, Pahalgam, Mussoorie...he drives slowly and is willing to stop at the first sight of any river or waterfall. We stop often and a 1-day journey could easily take us 2, "because the holiday starts when you leave home. Not when you reach your destination."
He has 2 tickets for the latest film called Andhi and we go together. After the film he wants to discuss it, so we go to Connaught place for a cup of tea and a discussion.
As I grow older our relationship changes. He is the great dictator who talks about studies and careers. And no going out for late night parties. I am the sulky daughter who rebelliously hides comics between the pages of her school books and escapes into other worlds with her storybooks. The horrors of what he went through during the partition have made him more protective than most.
One by one his children get married and he is now a doting grandfather. Picnics, excursions, babysitting and ferrying them from school and then college does not stop him from continuing his dental practice.
Cancer strikes. The house is filled with relatives. This time there is an eerie silence in the gathering. The usual jokes and songs and endless rounds of snacks are replaced by an occasional whispered word. He fights back and strides out of the AIIMS hospital room after his 6th chemo. He is on a mission. My mom has an undiagnosed illness and he needs to arrange a bed for her in the same hospital.
He is cancer free and back to his boisterous self in no time at all. And then tragedy strikes. He loses his first born to a motorbike accident. He takes the blow on his chin and sets about settling his oldest grandkids.
But he is slowing down. Years of blood pressure medicine and the chemo take their toll. Dementia sets in. We watch as his brisk walk turns into a slow stumble. His back gets more and more bent and there comes a time when he cannot walk at all. We watch as his sentences get more and more disconnected, then its monosyllables and finally no words at all. I search his eyes to see signs of recognition and feel happy when I see them crinkle up into a smile.
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