Dad

The 2nd of April, 2018: Dad's 90th birthday

To lose a parent is never easy. Losing Dad this year, in the middle of the lockdown, not having been able to meet him on his birthday, or indeed after he got home from yet another visit to the hospital, and then suddenly....

But as the horror of the pandemic unfolded, it seemed as though he was one of the lucky ones. To go quietly and gently into that good night, not after suffering alone for days in some godforsaken ICU but simply slip into oblivion without notice. Yes, probably spared the bewilderment of not having any of us around him in hospital.

After my mother died, Dad's hospital visits were regular. At the National Heart Institute in South Delhi, he underwent surgery for a stent (he needed four but did not want so many!), and all of us discovered a little Café Coffee Day outlet which we haunted while waiting for news.  Some mornings and most evenings we would divide up the time (half an hour) equally between all those who wanted to visit him. Dad would look forward to the visits. He would ask each one whether the others (and how many of them) were waiting to see him. As soon as one would come down, the next would rush up the stairs. Even that year when I was recovering from a broken leg, I would wait outside the lift and relay up the second the previous person reached the ground floor. 

However, that was only while he was in the ICU. The instant he was shifted into a private room, all of us were sneaking in and out past the guards all day long. There were two passes, one for the attendant and the other for the visitor. We would sneak two people up into his room right at the start so that one person would always be with him while the second person would rotate. So we got to spend the entire day with him. 

Interestingly, those were bonding days for the rest of us as well. Usually, we only met during occasions - birthdays - but when Dad was visiting NHI, all of us would meet up there. And those hospital visits were the most social the family ever got in the past few years. I think I had the deepest conversations with my brother, my sister-in-law, and my daughter - sitting sipping tea, coffee, and eating those little Belgian Chocolate desserts - than I have ever had before or since.

It had everything to do with Dad. Like a magnet, he pulled us together, gently, inexorably, wonderfully. There was always so much calm - except when any of us was trying to get him to do something he really didn't want to - and so much peace around him. That smile, that ability to take life as it came, that stock response to "how are you" - "I am fine... today... can't say anything about tomorrow." - Said with a beatific smile. Always. So you wanted to spend time with him.

Sometimes, all it meant was to sit and watch cricket. Even after a surgery, the first question he would ask would be about cricket scores, so we would tell the floor attendants to keep him up-to-date with those!

At others, we would watch his TV serials with him. When I visited (and stayed with him), he would help me catch up with what I had missed in the interim. But since Bong serials don't move very quickly, there wouldn't be too much missed! 

Every now and then, he would be peeved with the hospital because it didn't have his Bengali channels. So one summer, I realised that his current series, Devi Choudhurani, was showing on Hotstar. I took along my laptop and sat grinning as he did what so many people do - binged! Episode after episode - the entire week had been missed - and then he was happy.

It took really very little to make him happy. But one thing used to get him upset - the food! If there was no chicken! Not that he complained too much, but he would inform the dietician that he was definitely not used to a vegetarian diet! Much to the consternation of said dietician! In the last three weeks of his life, my brother told me later, he had lost interest in food. That should have told us something, I guess.

It wasn't just his good nature, of course, that was so attractive. It was his innate honesty in all his relationships. He played the game damned straight, always. Although not brutal in his honesty, he never hesitated to tell people exactly what he thought of them, usually with a disarming smile. On occasion, we were mortified, though. But he had a beautiful child-like quality that was deeply endearing. And a sense of fun. 

I did not think, when he was alive, that it would be so difficult to cope with his passing. But it has been a wrench. Whenever I pass NHI, I find myself tearing up, because he is no longer there to be there - you know... I miss that soft, gentle smell of his clothes, and the little chomping noises he made while eating - enjoying his food like a small child. I miss seeing him fall asleep watching cricket, and waking up when someone got out. And then sometimes when the Indian team was not playing well, switching off the TV in disgust (even though several others were watching the match!). 

Mostly, of course, I miss being around him.... just hanging out with Dad.