It's been a year. They say time heals. I guess it’s not time yet. We still wince
with the what-ifs. We still say, 'Oh, wouldn't he have loved this!' We still
remember the day like it was yesterday. My father died one year ago on this
day. Life was never the same again.
He was something to everybody. My mother misses her wonderful husband and dear friend. I miss my unabashedly loving father. The extended family misses a guiding light. His friends miss his amiable self. And so many others miss so much else. But, most of all, we miss his sparkling wit and engaging company.
And so I'd like to remember him with some of the anecdotes he
told and retold and regaled us with.
One of my favourites was how he played big brother to my
uncle whom he called Chamy. I will
try to say it in his voice. "So, I remember this time when we were kids. A
kid from the opposite cottage had roughed up Chamy. So, I taught him a lesson.
In the evening, the boy came with his entire gang and identified me. The cottage
kids were not the kindest lot. At that particular time, I happened to be
batting in an all-important game of cricket. My team captain proclaimed to the
boys, "You will not touch him till he gets out." Such dedication to
the sport! I held onto my bat and played the innings of my life! I have never
batted the way again! Literally, for dear life!“
My father dabbled in a bit of magic in his college days. This
one was from his days at Bombay College of Pharmacy. "My friend trained
hard and long for a magic show. His chief act was one where he would eat glass.
He trained by starting slowly with a small piece each day and over the course
of six months, he could eat an entire glass tumbler. So, at the show, he broke
a glass tumbler and started eating it and finished the act with élan. Then, as
is customary, he invited someone from the audience to attempt it. And this
chap, a really eccentric fellow from our class, started walking up. This chap
was nuts! Our man started sweating. He got really nervous. The guy from the
audience walked up and calmly ate the remaining glass and walked off. Much ado
about nothing!"
This other one was of a time when we were travelling in the US with my father’s uncle Nachu mama. "Travelling with Nachu mama has its own charm. You are guaranteed to have fun all the time. We were trying to get from New York to Washington Narayan's house in Washington and we were lost as usual. We stopped at a light and rolled down our glasses to ask the next car for directions. Do you know the way to Lee Highway? The Chinese couple replied, "We are also looking for Lee Highway." Nachu mama paused and asked the couple very seriously, "Are you also going to Narayan's house?" And the whole car erupted and shook and the poor couple in the neighbouring car had no idea what was so funny!"
Another one was when we did finally reach Washington Narayan's house. "So, we finally reached his house. The man had a bread maker in his house. He made his own bread. He carefully put the ingredients in and waited faithfully for over two hours. In the two hours, he enlightened us about how he locked himself in a room and the positive vibrations of the room helped him levitate. And, finally the bread was baked and ready. We took it out and devoured his fruit of hard labour in all of two minutes! Next meal- after two hours!”
Ofcourse, I can’t complete this without replaying a joke
that he would tell and tell and tell. I really think SMSes and Whatsapps of
this world may have led to the demise of good joke telling. My father was
really good at it. He’d build the suspense well and deliver the punch
brilliantly! Here’s one of the jokes I practically grew up with! “So, Santa
Singh was at the cricket ground watching a cricket match. It was Mumbai vs
Karnataka and he was supporting Mumbai. Mumbai was bowling and was doing rather
well. The bowler pitched a delivery and just as the ball was about to land into
the fielder’s hands, somebody called from behind, “Oh Santa Singh!” Santa
looked back and missed the action! In the next over, the bowler yet again
pitched a delivery and just as the ball was about to land into the fielder’s
hands, somebody called from behind, “Arre! Oh! Santa Singh!”. Santa looked back
and missed the action! He cursed and turned his attention to the field again.
This rigmarole repeated another three times. Just as the fielder was about to
take yet another catch, somebody called from behind, “Arre! Oh! Santa Singh!” Finally,
our man gets frustrated and yells back “Arre! Mera naam Santa Singh nahi hain!”
We miss the conversation. We miss the wisdom. We miss the words. We miss the voice.
It is
easier to think of death as a continuum to life after which life happens again.
The alternative is hard. Very hard. Hope the years make it easier. Amen.
