One Year On

Today it’s been a year since my father passed away. He would have been a young 72 if he were alive…

The past year has not been easy. It’s probably been the most difficult for my Mother - Ma suddenly lost everything that meant home. Even when they had precious little worldly belongings, they always had each other. But the way she’s handled it is inspiring. Her presence gave me strength when I was questioning the fairness of it all. I wonder where she gets her strength from…

When you lose someone, it is difficult to hear people say the same clichéd words of sympathy. Obviously, they’ve never lost a dear one. They’ll say that he’s in a better place now or that the soul is immortal and continues its onward journey of experience; it’s the body that’s been discarded etc. It takes away from your grief. We loved the soul AND the body it was in. And even if the soul continues to live, it doesn’t live with us, does it? Even though we know death is an eventuality for all, NOTHING prepares us for the heartache when it happens. Your heart is torn between wanting to hold on, and knowing that letting go is better than a painful existence.

The most difficult part, though, has been to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone forever and we’ll never see him again. EVER! When I’m out and see an elderly couple together, or grandparents playing with their grandchildren, I suddenly feel a lump in my throat – that’ll never be my parents… Growing up, my children and nephews will not have their grandfather. They will never have the privilege of hearing more of his stories and learning some more from him.

My father was a very knowledgeable man. Anyone who has interacted with him even briefly would agree with me on this. He loved a good debate, and it was always an informed discussion, not hearsay. He was a voracious reader, an avid gardener who won many awards for his efforts, and a very talented self-taught artist/ painter. Being a bread lover, he also tried his hand at bread making and developing his own Sourdough Starter. And these were only a few of his many talents. He developed a love for teaching while posted at the Railway Staff College in Vadodara as Senior Professor of Mechanical Engineering. We realised this love when he continued to address himself as “Professor” well into his retirement!

Pa, as my brother and I call him, was a simple man at heart. He had few needs and even fewer wants. He was very strong willed and at times set in his ways and unwilling to compromise if he thought he was right. I guess we get that from him ;-) Another trait we got from him was the love of learning. Since he was with the Indian Railways, we travelled extensively by train. The window seat was much coveted, and irrespective of who got it, we would be bombarded with a running commentary – about the crops, the soil, the people, the architecture or anything else we could see. He was especially passionate about explaining anything Railway related, be it the tracks, the warehouses, bridges, or types of locomotives (yes, you don’t call them Engines!). I try doing that with my children now, and often realise how little I know to pass on, and how MUCH he knew. The first instinct, still, is to confirm things with him before searching on Google!

There’s so much of him in my brother and I. Every time I realise I’m walking or sitting like him, I miss him even more. And I also realise that a part of him will continue to live on in us and our children. That doesn’t make up for his absence, though. A constant fear for me has been that I will forget. Not HIM, but that I might forget his smile, the sound of his full-throated laughter, the sound of his voice (which was lovely, by the way) or anything else that is not documented. Why didn’t we take more pictures/ videos together as a family? Did I pay enough attention when he talked? What if I forget the mole on his toe…? Will I remember him as the strong, handsome man I’d known him to be all my life, or as the person in the hospital I found hard to believe was my father?

Times of grief reveal who your real friends and well-wishers are. I used to feel that people who are happy in your happiness are your true friends, the type who “Like” your photos or status updates on social media. Turns out, I felt closer to people who shared my grief with me. Not those who told me it would get better with time, but those who promised to stick with me till (and if) such a time, or just held me when I cried. My childhood friends who called or texted even when I told them I didn’t feel like talking. Or my father’s friends who told me I should consider them a father figure, and true to their word, have helped us immensely and still keep checking on us.

I have always felt life is like a Railway Platform. A train enters the platform, people alight from it, and are united with their family waiting for them. So like a child being born. Some people board the train, leaving behind loved ones. So like death… When the train leaves, each person goes about their life, oblivious of the others’ happiness or sorrow.

Ultimately, the truth is, life waits for no one. And only death is final…