The room was full of light and death entered through the open windows with ease. Yet I didn't cry.
I was feeling numb since the morning. Letting go is an inevitability of life. Six days back, my fifty-seven year old father had a cerebral stroke. I was only nineteen. One early morning, I was holding him in my arms, while the blocked blood cells were fighting hard to reach his oxygen-starved brain. Slowly, he became sluggish. Our family physician called a specialist who confirmed that father had a complete paralysis of his left side.
The clot in his brain had robbed him of his speech. During those last six days, I, a son and an only child, was watching helplessly, how life gets sapped out. On the second day, father had picked up his inert left hand with his good right hand. He moved the useless rings on his left hand a bit, giving a false sense of hope. It was short-lived.
For the past four years, father had been much depressed. He was waiting, in vain, to get confirmation in a superintendent's position while he was officiating in that post. The pressure was silently taking its toll on his health. In those days, blood pressure medicine was not that advanced. Before the end came, our seasoned family doctor started pumping my father's heart and abdomen area, but with no luck. Stupefied, I observed the final triumph of death, just past mid-day. Most present was crying, but not me. Relatives and friends were slowly pouring in. Ironically, my father was a clerk at the High Court, where justice is dispensed and the top brass decides if a clerk gets his confirmation as a superintendent or not. Justice never fails.
Around 2 PM in the afternoon, one close colleague of father dutifully delivered a letter for my father - his letter of confirmation!
When I put the body of my father on the pyre, I was directed to observe the symbolic rituals of applying oil, water and ghee on it. I sadly remembered my lapses as a son, when he was alive. Now it was a bit late. When I took a customary dip in the river Ganges after the cremation, past mid night, I felt a mild shiver, from fear or the ice-cold water, I wasn't sure. Still no tears.
Many years had passed. I had passed engineering, got a job and got married. Life in general was full of challenges but there were consolations too - we were blessed with the birth of our only son, source of infinite joy. Staying in the suburb, I had to commute downtown for my daily work. Once on my way back home I saw a hawker selling an English primer for fifty paisa on the local train. Our son was then barely six months old. But overexcited that I was about his future, I couldn't help buying the book. I was standing near the gate of the compartment. Some cool breeze brushed my tired eyes and temples. Suddenly I felt a delicate touch of love that I was so familiar with - the love of my father. Despite being poor, he used to bring a book for me, almost every month. Those were usually translations of some classics that had opened up the world to me, the son of a posthumously confirmed superintendent. The fifty paisa English primer for my son was about to start the cycle again.
I didn't realize when some thick drops of tear rolled down my cheeks.
Read the entire e-magazine at http://www.jhaalmuricorner.com/jhaalmuriboisakhi.html
Jhaalmuri
Spread Creativity. Spread Happiness.
http://from-the-jhalmuri-corner.blogspot.in/
mail: thejhaalmurigang@gmail.com
mail: thejhaalmurigang@gmail.com
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