Each item in my father’s room triggers a chain of fond memories, overwhelming me. This happens each time I go upstairs to my dad’s room. I am disabled and can’t proceed any further. Pangs of separation can be more intense and prolonged when one’s bonds with the deceased are deep and not just cosmetic, I muse.
The emptiness created by the absence of a vibrant, articulate guardian-father in the spacious flat has often tended to shake and sadden its two remaining occupants. Yet the positive frame of mind he demonstrated throughout his life has kept us inspired. Even as the days go by, his benevolent soul continues to bless us.
An upright person whose morale was always high till a few months before his earthly exit, he had categorical views on life, religion, politics and personal relationships, and wielded immense respect among relatives and others close to him. I am still to fully follow his unique trait of maintaining his cool irrespective of circumstances. He was also known for his forgiving nature and held no grudge against anyone, irrespective of what they did. I attribute such a sterling mindset as much to the genes as to the trials and tribulations he underwent after having lost both his parents at early age of four. He always gave his best, expected little from even his close friends and held his head high.
It is over 11 months but the remembrances continue to intermittently tease us out of thought. When I first left my family in Delhi to join a government organisation in Bhopal, his advice via an inland letter had points that still reverberate in my psyche: “God has made day and night in equal measure, 12 hours each; do the day’s work at day time, ditto for night”. Generous in helping others in need yet resenting wastage of food, clothing and consumables, he was an intriguing mix of frugality and magnanimity and often said, “Look at and learn from those earning less than you.” On friendship, his advice was: “Be selective in choosing friends. You find the best and the worst in your vicinity.”
We have chosen to observe Varshiki, the first yearly homage to my father not where he lived with us in Delhi but at our native home in Uttarakhand hills overlooking Ganga river, near Deoprayag. It shall be difficult for many near and dear ones to reach the hilly terrain, particularly in the rainy season to pay their homage. Yet the venue is in line with his wish to spend his last days in our native place, something we failed to do. There is great satisfaction in merging with the entity one belongs to, something the young take time to understand.