My Father

Was going through an old personal diary last night. Found two entries centred around my father and his death. I was twenty two when I wrote them and I am reproducing them here as they were written then, unmodified by any fresh perspectives.

Dear Dad,

When A Auntie showed me that framed picture of you it felt strange.

On one hand, I felt proud and fond of you, and on the other I know that when you were alive I didn’t really care about you. As far as I can remember we never really had a strong relationship.

You led a very confused and complicated life – full of sex and illegitimate children. But I know you must have been lonely and unhappy.

I don’t really know how much you cared about me. You sent weird signals like advising S to have sex with as many people as possible. And biting me on my back and saying – ‘That’s what it feels like’.

Staying over at your place was not something I particularly liked doing. In fact, I usually did it because grown-ups told me that you would be pleased.

I know you were disappointed that I was not a boy and didn’t play cricket.

I was surprised to find myself so upset when you died and even now at times when I think of you. Is it just base sentimentality or is there some truth behind such feelings?

I know now that you were a man of humour, intelligence and compassion – as in when you were going to wring that poor dying dog’s neck.

Perhaps now that I’m older, if you had been alive we could have been closer. Or maybe it would have been worse. Perhaps it’s better that you’re no more.

Another good thing about you was that you were very genuine.

But the thing that hurts me the most about your death has got nothing to do with you. It’s the fact that the family, especially Mom, have never visited your grave. I feel that if I were to die tomorrow everyone would forget about me in no time as well.

Anyway, overall I guess you were a good person as you let your intuition guide you and were true to yourself.

Rest in Peace.
____________________________________________________

C watched through the blur of her tears her family throw clods of earth and red rose petals on her father’s coffin which would soon be six feet below the ground.

When her mother had picked her up from her school bus-stop in her office car, C had been pleasantly surprised. Her mother had never done such a thing. She usually walked drearily to her aunt’s, had lunch, did her homework, read and hung about till it was 6 o’clock and time to go home. That was when her Mom would come back home and she looked forward to the evenings when she was in her own home. She did not like being at her aunt’s where she felt like a poor relative.

She looked at the other graves – some black and cold, others friendly with flower-beds. There were also tiny ones with ‘Baby so-and-so’ on them.

She remembered trying to joke to herself about her father’s wobbling stomach as his body was being carried out. But try as she might she couldn’t keep her tears at bay.

Her sister was freaking out and crying without holding back so her mother was busy comforting her. She sat alone at the back, controlling her tears, listening to women gossip about her father’s affairs.

She had stood that morning in front of the mirror, wearing a white salwar kameez, gazing coquettishly out of the white chiffon chunni on her head, playing the beautiful bereaved daughter. Then she had felt guilty and had taken off her earrings.

She stood there watching them burying her father and wondered how they could be so calm and resigned.