I remember him helping me pack my school bag and walking me down to school at the bend of the road. I remember him helping me with my homework and telling me to be more careful and not use the eraser so often.
I remember him on Wednesday nights and Sunday nights ironing the pleats to perfection on my school uniform. And every night, we said our prayers together.
I remember how his face glowed when I did well in school and how it fell when I did not do so well. I always tried but I sometimes failed and he understood. I remember the day I got my first prize for spelling every word correctly.
He was happier than I was and carried me on his strong shoulders. He went to office on his cycle in the bustle of the huge metropolis, flanked on each side by tooting traffic. I prayed each day that he would return home safe and mercifully he did, with his shopping bags.
School years flew by and so did college. He began to look old and frail; his step faltered. I noticed his hand tremble when I handed him his cup of tea.
Sometimes I complained that my wardrobe was not large enough and I had only one pair of good shoes. I told him that all my friends appeared to be much better off. He replied that this was all he could afford and if I wanted anything more, I would have to work for it.
Today when I see the clothes tumbling out of my closets, his words ring in my ears. It must have pained him to say what he did, but I did not care to see the pain in his eyes or voice because I was young and was afflicted with the callousness of youth.
As I grew up, he said he was guided by the philosophy “that what other people think of you is none of your business as long as you have an honest self-estimate. Again, never be reminded of your duty and never do anything that you would look back with shame or regret.”
In the end, I think that constitutes a good life.
He had a fine instinct. He loved art, music, literature, the sky, the stars and the moon and passed on to me his love of all these. One day when I was far away, he died of cardiac arrest. I did not get to see him, or hear his last words or speak to him. Worst of all, I never got around to telling him how much I loved him. The world is a lonelier place without him but he lives in my heart and I hear him all the time. He was my Papa.
Sudha Devi Nayak
Email: sudhadevi_nayak@yahoo.com