Papa!

My relationship with my dad went through many phases. As a small child, I was scared of him but not scared enough to not ask questions – as long as they are not “stupid questions” and I did not pester him.

As a young girl, I respected his scientific acumen and as an adult, I learnt from him that to have healthy relationships, one needs to give space, privacy and respect others’ individuality

Papa ran a small photo studio and did some pathbreaking work in his field and was always busy. A Geologist by education, he decided to follow his passion for photography when it came to choosing a livelihood. He started the studio on 20th February 1962 when he was 28.

Also, at that time my grandfather was retired and Papa was the only earning member of our joint family. A decade later, in 1973, when my sister was born, my grandfather also embarked on a new business which eventually was very successful.

Papa’s photo studio was known as Retina Studio and he was the only photographer in the city and perhaps one of the few in the country, in the mid-1970s who did photomicrography for medical sciences and research work. His work involved long hours of peering into a microscope and taking photographs of the slide samples provided. These photos were then made into transparencies to be used for the purpose of education and research.

The other work he did was taking photographs of medical procedures. He has photographed most of the pathbreaking surgeries that have happened in Nagpur.

For a brief time, he also did industrial photography for some government organisations but he could not get around to beat the bureaucracy and was always unhappy. He was not the person who could go and sit at the babu’s office just so his payment is released. He was of the opinion that he did good work and the payment should be made promptly and as professionally as he did his work. However, he thoroughly enjoyed working in the field of Medical Sciences.

Papa’s typical day started with waking up at 8.30 AM and leaving for work around 10.00 AM. He would on most days come home for lunch around 2 pm and then go back only to return at around 10.00 PM, have dinner, read whatever novel he was reading and go off to sleep around midnight. His weekly off was Saturday and every Saturday evening he and mom would go out and spend some time together. At times my sister and I went along too and we were treated to a meal of Dosa or a glass of Sugarcane juice. I looked forward to and loved this outing and it is a lovely memory.

On Saturdays I had a morning school which got over at 11 AM and I would come back to papa being home and listening to Ghazals or classical music on our gramophone (and in later years on a spool tape recorder) . I would hang around with him upstairs just so that I could listen to it too; much to the annoyance of my mother who expected me to help her with the household work.

He also inculcated the love of reading in us. Even though money was tight he always bought one Amar Chitra Katha and Chandamama every month ever since I was 10 years old. He kept buying these magazines till I finished school -although I had graduated to reading classics in English and Hindi by that time. When I was 15, looking at my love for Urdu poetry he also bought the prepublication copy of “Aaina e ghazal” for me.

There would be days when I would go with mom and spend the evening time at the studio where he would either be attending to his patrons or sitting and talking with a few of his many friends. Retina studio was the “adda” where all of them met. Sometime in the early ’70s he also joined the Masonic Lodge and his circle of friends grew bigger.

He was a people’s person. Loved having friends and family around. Our ancestral home too was a place where people, relatives, and relatives of relatives, or friends of relatives kept coming, sometimes even staying for an extended period of time, much to my irritation and annoyance as it would disturb my school and study schedule. Ours was a traditional family and as the eldest daughter, my first responsibility was to help in the kitchen, attend to the guests.

But Papa always encouraged me to study – study science and even helped me with my physics, and biology lessons. Chemistry I was always good at – I later learnt that our family was a family of chemists. Papa’s ways of teaching me, however, weren’t very pleasant when he realised that I am slacking. He would throw the book away and get angry. I don’t ever remember hitting me but his loud voice was enough to scare me to death. But I still loved being taught by him, he was a good teacher and I could understand the concepts easily if I paid attention.

As I grew up, our relationship changed. He became a confidante and an advisor to me. Gave me all the freedom and taught me to take the responsibilities that came with the freedom. He was the first person to know when I fell in love for the first time at an age of 19. He did not react when I told him, just said, see to it that this does not affect your studies. Ours was an orthodox Kayastha household, and this (while it may not be now) was a big deal for me. Although there was one time when I showed a photograph to him, of me and my boyfriend, which he destroyed along with it’s negative. Many years later, when I was talking to him about it, he said he did not know better and that he destroyed the picture because he was worried it could affect my life in future.

Papa was a modern man, never made me or my sister felt that we were any less just because we were girls. Much of what we both are is because of our upbringing by him and Mom.

He was an agnostic, but respected mom’s right towards her religious beliefs, and mine of being an atheist.

After he retired and closed the studio in 1999, he started spending more time at home. By that time I was married, Aasim was born and that is when we started talking more. Aasim too spent his growing up years with papa and was also taught a lot of things, and perhaps some more than what he taught me.

It was after he fell down the stairs in 2013 that I insisted that he and mom come and stay next doors to us since I was constantly worried about their well being. I have a huge library and a big collection of music, and he loved being here although he did miss being in the house he made for himself, after moving away from the ancestral home in 1998, he understood my concerns so he and mom kept shuttling between both the homes, for the next couple of years.

Papa was an active person and till he was 83 he regularly walked 5 km every day. He had left smoking and had started working out since he suffered an angina attack when he was in his early 50s.

He was also aware of his advancing age and the issues of health that come with old age. While he was always clear and had told us and several others, that after he is no more, his body should be donated for the cause of medical academics and research, in 2016 he decided to do the paperwork.

Papa was the eldest in the family in his generation and was respected and loved by everyone. Everyone was also very afraid of talking to him. His two brothers and three sisters are very close to each other but rarely talk their hearts out. All the siblings love being together, not talking much with each other but sitting in comfortable silence, each doing their own things.

Over the past 20 years, Papa talked a lot with me. We would sit and discuss books, music, poetry, and matters of life and death. He had entrusted me to carry out his will of body donation, knowing that I will respect his wish and do it even at the cost of going against our extended family.

When he was diagnosed with fast progressing Interstitial Lung Disease earlier this year, he knew that it’s just a matter of time.

A few months back, one morning he told me “For the first time in my life, I have written something, see if it makes sense” It was a couplet and one small poem. He gave it to me “isko rakh lo” he said.

Papa was an emotional person but always found himself at a loss of words to express his feelings. Perhaps it was social conditioning or it was his upbringing that made him suppress his feelings. He wanted to tell the people around that he loved them, but could not get around to saying it. Although I am sure, everyone did understand that he did. I asked him once as to why does he not express himself, to which he replied. “Pata nahi, kabhi kiya hi nahi”

By March end his health deteriorated, and when we went for a check up, he wanted me to tell exactly how much of his lungs were still clear.

He did not like being very emotional, and while he was a sensitive person, he rarely portrayed it outwardly. The best way to communicate with Papa was on a logical and practical level and that is where he could connect with me most.

A day after his hospitalisation, on the 19th May, he spoke to everyone. Most of the family had already flown in as he was deteriorating fast. He even called my eldest bua, his sister who was to reach in a day or two. A few of my cousins made video calls and he spoke to them, and had a hearty laugh when Atul told him on video call “Mamaji your hairstyle is so spunky”

He was in the best of health that day, could breath effortlessly, and even speak very clearly, which he could not a day earlier. He ate moong dal khichidi, his favourite meal, heartily. Even consumed good quantity of liquids. He spent most of the day talking to everyone who came to visit him in the hospital.

By late afternoon, just the two of us were there, I told him to sleep but he wanted to sit and talk. We talked for a long time, of various things, people and incidences. He reminisced his childhood and spoke to me about his parents and the family. He spoke of his grandsons. “Ishan is too young but it was good that Aasim had come last month” he said. He also instructed me to take the printout of the family tree which he sat and made with Aasim.

A while later he said he is feeling very good and much better but knows that the lungs are giving up. He asked me if he was right, and I did not lie, I said yes, papa, the lungs are not good. To which he recited a couplet

layi hayaat laye, qaza le chali chale
apni khushi na aaye, na apni khushi chale

We talked a bit about this ghazal and then he wanted to hear the K L Saigal version of this ghazal

After this one he recited one misra from another ghazal and wanted to me to recite the entire ghazal for him. We played that ghazal too.

kamar bandhe hue chalne ko yaaN sab yaar baithe hain
bahut aage gaye baki jo hain tayyar baithe hain

 

We listened to more ghazals by K L Saigal and C H Atma together and then he said “play that piece of Bhairvai by Ustad Vilayat Ali Khan and Ustad Zakir Hussain”. I knew which piece he was talking about. It’s a favourite of both of us. So I played this while he closed his eyes and heard it and drifted off to sleep.

 

This was the last complete conversation I had with Papa. I returned home for the night as my Swapna, my sister took charge.

The next morning, on 20th, she called me saying that his oxygen levels (SPO2) are fluctuating widely, they don’t look good, and I rushed back to the hospital.

The day passed in making him feel comfortable during the bouts of restlessness due to low oxygen levels. Finally, just before 7 PM, he suffered a cardiac arrest while I was holding him. Swapna and Tarique were also near his bed.

The attending doctors and the staff of the hospital were very quick to revive him, but his lungs were not able to sustain the beating heart. He finally gave up the fight at 7.55 PM.

As per his wishes, his body was donated for medical education and research purposes to NKP Salve Institute of Medical Sciences and Lata Mangeshkar Hospital, Hingna, Nagpur. His eyes were donated to Mahatme Eye Bank and Eye Hospital.

Papa lived a happy and fulfilled life, was surrounded by his siblings and the family during the last days of his life. He had met everyone he wanted to in the past few months of his life. There was no regret and he could feel the love of the family. He lived a life that needs to be celebrated. Knowing him as much as I do, I know that this is how he would want to be remembered.

The photos below were taken in April 2019, when Aasim came home to meet him.

Family
The four of us
Papa with Mom
Papa and Bua

Jahan gham bhee na hoN aasuN bhee na hoN bas pyar hi pyar pale

Aasim was a few months old and I use to sing to him so that he could sleep. Yes back then, I could sing. He would watch me sing with this toy in his hand, and with the gentle rocking of his swing, he would fall asleep.

This was his favourite song back then.

Aa chal ke tujhe main le ke chaluN ek aise gagan ke tale
jahaN gham bhee na hoN aasuN bhee na hoN bas pyar hi pyar pale.

On his 19th birthday today, my wish for him is that his world be filled with happiness always.

Kabhi dhoop khile, kabhi chhon mile
lambi si dagar na khale
jahan gham bhee na hoon aason bhee na hon
bas pyar hi pyar pale.

Happy 19th, betu.

गौरी

गौरी। कुछ ५ साल की थी जब उसकी माँ इलाहबाद की गर्मियों की चपेट में आ गयी और २ दिन में ही इस दुनिया से चली गयीं उम्र इतनी नहीं थी कि सब कुछ समझ पाती, मगर पापा थे, भैया थे, दादी थीं, तीनों बुआ थीं. खयाल रखने वाले काफ़ी लोग थे। ज़िन्दगी इतनी बुरी भी नहीं थी। फिर कुछ सालों बाद उसके पापा की दुसरी शादी हो गयी। पापा नयी मम्मी के साथ रहने लगे और गौरी और उसके भैया इलाहबाद में चाचा चाची के साथ। कुछ दिन सब ठीक रहा, स्कूल भी ठीक ही चल रहा था दोनों भाई बहन छुट्टियों में पापा से भी मिल लेते थे। गौरी छठीं कक्षा में पहुंच गयी। फिर एक दिन अचानक ख़बर आयी  – गौरी मर गयी।
मर गयी? कैसे मर गयी? कुछ भी तो नहीं हुआ था उसे।
पता चला किसी ने ड्रग्स की आदत लगवा दी थी उसे।
ओवर डोज़ ने उसकी जान ले ली।
गौरी मेरी ममेरी बहन थी

Love and gravity

जाते जाते वो मुझे अच्छी निशानी दे गया
उम्र भर दोहराऊंगा एसी कहानी दे गया

We had announced our wedding and you being Tarique’s brother, wanted to meet me. So I met you at a Cafe near Churchgate station at 7 PM and the bond that formed that evening was strong. We did have our disagreements in the beginning. You were that kind of person – strong and pig-headed at times. But you always were my brother-in-law and a brother to me.

You told me in our first meeting that you are an incorrigible romantic, and in the end you even managed to romance death, so much that she took you away leaving us completely shaken. I have no idea how life would be without you. How will we all fill the void that you have left. Who will I discuss Urdu Shairi with and how will I cope up when to every sher I write, there isn’t a reply in the form of another equally good couplet.  What will I do now that I know you are not there at the other end of the phone. Tell me, is there some kind of  Whatsapp up there?  Tell me, Interstellar was right, that  love and gravity will always transcend time and space. Just send me a signal and I will know that you are there in another dimension.

Here’s  for you BIL. I am going to miss you terribly, Bhaijan, but I will not grieve your absence, your life deserves to be celebrated, not mourned.

 

Airport


There was nothing to do, so she just sat and observed people and her imagination took off. The freedom she was experiencing to be herself despite being in a place full of people was liberating. There were no restrictions and no compulsions on her here, so her mind started racing.

She started reflecting on her past and remembered it was an evening like this, she was sitting at a small airport and out of the blue he appeared wearing a Red t-shirt and jeans. She gasped, despite the years the resemblance was uncanny. It can’t be him at this nondescript place she  thought to herself and averted her gaze but had to look up when he came close. It was him. They were more than friends long ago but then had drifted apart and though she did think of him occasionally she never thought she’d meet him in this lifetime. She felt a bit awkward as he approached her and made a direct eye contact.

Hey! He said. Long time!
Long time, indeed, she replied. How have you been?
So far so good, but now that i have seen you, seems like i am in for some good time, he quipped jovially.
Taken aback with this unexpected familiarity he spoke with, she could not say anything but realised that it’s time they heal the broken bonds and get past what had been.

Let’s grab a coffee, he said and took her arm. She flung her jacket on her shoulders and responded warmly to his invitation. He was a close friend of many years, after all. She could not be cold towards him for something that they both were equally responsible for.

She soon felt the bitterness of past dissolve like sugar in coffee, and the sweetness of an old comfortable relationship filled her. They talked like they always did, as if all these years of not being in touch were just few moments of being apart from each other. She soon felt the same attraction towards him growing in her and tried curb the feelings. He, realising something amiss asked her and she could not lie.

“I am drawn towards you like a moth to a flame” She said in her usual poetic style.

Don’t bother to stop yourself from what you are feeling, darling. He said. We have come a long way and after all these years, perhaps grown wiser than what we were. So they both let go and talked passionately about things that were left unsaid for the longest time. Both of them felt the warmth engulfing them all over again.  The bond once broken strengthened and they departed for their destinations promising to stay in touch for the rest of their lives.

They kept their promise and met often. Spending nights together, stealing moments out of their busy schedule sometimes in his city, sometime at hers and at times they could even spend their holidays together. Neither spoke of moving in together, but their relationship was special and they cherished and preserved it. Till one such time that he did not turn up at the appointed place a couple of years back. She inquired, and rushed to his bedside.

She went back home after he recovered , and they continued meeting each other through out their lives At least whatever of it had remained.

Today she was leaving for a hospice facility. He had departed a year back.

“It’s my turn now” she thought just as the flight was announced. Someone pushed her wheelchair towards the boarding gate.

Photo by kevin dooley

The two of us

Its dawn. The sky is beginning to turn pink with hope and I am looking towards the dissolving stars. Soon, I know, soon there will be light and I will see you. For now, I am content with feeling the curves of your body with my hands and feeling your warm breath on my face. The sweet fragrance that I inhale when you are around intoxicates me. The words you utter sound like music to me and I picture you in my mind. You are perfect, and if there is anything more I want it’s a glimpse of you.

I step a few paces away from you so that I can see you completely, from head to toe. I want to bask in that sight, I want to remember it forever. I have waited for this day since a very long time and finally I know that day has come. I can almost hear the music I’ll play for you, see the picture I will click of both of us together and the places I will go with you. I have lived my life just for this one moment. The moment of truth. To whisper sweet nothings to you, and hear them from you. I have spoken with you so many times, almost daily, sometimes for hours together. Today I have decided I will meet you.

I dip my feet in the cool waters of the lake and I feel your presence. I am waiting for the first rays of sun. I want to see the rays touch your face before they touch anything else.

“Are you ready” I say.

“I am just a voice in your head” I don’t exist. I am just your reflection. I am your dream, let me be within you” You reply.

The two of us get up and leave quietly.

Photo credit: Chris Paul 2014 via Foter.com / CC BY

Riots


I am running. I want to go back but I can not. I can not turn back, there is nothing for me there. I feel a surge of fear taking a grip on me as I look at the street which is devoid of people. Not even a soul here. I have no place to go, no body to turn to. Scared I start to run and hit a big boulder on the middle of the road. I take a hit on my head. Its bleeding, blood running down my temples, I lick my lips and find them salty, I try to spit but my mouth is dry. Water. I must have some water. I keep running and looking around. All the doors are closed. The ones that are open have no one inside.

No choice, I say to my self, run or they will get you as they got others. I have lost the cloth piece I used as a shawl to protect myself, I am sweating and yet a shiver runs down my spine.

Finally I dare to look behind and slow down with relief. I think I can rest a while.

Water, I must have some water.  I look around once again and find a dog licking something from a discarded utensil.  It’s a bowl with some liquid. I shoo away the dog and try to lift the bowl.  My hands are shaking, they start to give up. The bowl seems heavy but I lift it nevertheless and gulp down few precious mouthfuls of water that it had. The dog starts to whimper and I run my hand over its head. The dog doesn’t bite me, wags its tail instead.  At least the dog understands what civilized human beings have forgotten.

The events that happen a few hours back run through my mind again… fire, stones, people shouting slogans, slogans against and slogans for something, some sect, some religion.. I don’t understand any of it. Suddenly a stone hits my window and I go hide beneath the desk. There is no one at home. I am all alone, like I always am at this hour in the night. Father has to go and work the night shift to get money for the bread. I have done my share of working during the day. Tired and hungry I am waiting for him. Suddenly a burning cloth hits my home. The thatched roof starts burning, acrid smoke fills my tiny hut and I have no choice but to get out.

As I step out of my home, I hear people shouting, “there, there he is. Kill him like we killed his father” “No, burn him” “He does not belong here” “Hey you, go back to where you come from” someone says. I try to reply “but I live here, I was born in this hut” They don’t listen. My words don’t reach them at all. The crowd is getting bigger, scarier. I see someone. He is my friend’s father. I know him. A hope fills my heart but then I notice that his eyes are red. “Is he drunk?” I wonder.

I consider telling him that I know his son, we play together. But there is no time for that. I see them coming closer with knives and stones. Some have axes in their hands. I sense they really want to kill me so I run. I am tiny and can go beneath the carts and I can run faster than most of them. I run hard and manage to escape.

It’s been twenty days since this happened. I don’t know what happened to my father. I had escaped and managed to get out of the locality where I lived with my father and others in a small cluster of hutments. That night I had taken shelter beneath a tree and had met a boy. His name was Chiru and he was almost my age.

Chiru had taken me in that night. He was scared and lonely too. We went to his hut and he shared half his food with me. I learnt that he lives alone too. His father, was killed a week before I met him when some people from the other locality attacked theirs. I feel  his pain.  The people who attacked Chiru’s father were from my locality and I feel guilty for the crime they committed.Photo by Black Scratchy Lines

Friend


“Hi!!” he came to her and greeted.

“Hi” she replied back, a little cautiously.

“Are you new here? I have not seen you around” he asked. “Yes”. She gave a mono-syllabic reply. “Want me to show you around” he inquired and without waiting for a reply, picked up her bag of books in his hands and waited. An introvert that she was, she did not expect this and was a bit hesitant and a little taken aback with his brashness, but stood up never-the-less. He, just the opposite very talkative, playful and cheerful. She could not help but answer him back in a couple of syllables. It took a few moments of awkwardness but she found herself enjoying his company and allowed him to lead her everywhere.

They met the next day, and the day after and then it became a habit to seek each other out as soon as they reached the gate of their institution. Since they were also in the same class, they often sat together during the classes. Both of them were five and it was their first year of kindergarten.

Years passed, their friend circle expanded, and he became one of her numerous friends. In standard III, his father moved to another town. Her first friend got lost in the hustle bustle and business of life though she often missed him.

Economics was the subject she wanted to major in and she took admission in one of the best institutes in the capital. She had a lot on her mind, “I must get a room in the hostel, she thought to herself, else dad will never allow me to stay here so far away from home”, she was thinking, when she felt something stir.

“Hey! you new here” she heard a voice call out to her.

“Yes, Eco Honors,” She turned back and replied -tried to place the face. He looked familiar “You… aren’t you…?” she wanted to talk. She needed a friend, and hoped to find one as she had on her first day of the school.

“Hosteler?”He ignored her question

“Yes” She replied back and asked hopefully “are you in Eco too?”

“Report in the auditorium at 7 p.m tonight.

She shouldn’t have been, but she was disappointed. She desperately needed a friend in this huge campus which looked alien. She felt alone.

She gathered her skirt, kept her purse by her side and sat in a corner waiting in the auditorium.

“Hi!” he said, “Can I sit here?”

“Hi” she replied tentatively not sure what to answer.

Without waiting for her reply, he sat next to her. “Aman.” He said. “Eco Honors. And you?”

She told him her name hesitantly.

“Isn’t it funny?, I mean look at us newbies. We look just like kindergarten kids. Completely lost on the first day of college”  He continued talking, she replied to him in monosyllables at first, but soon found herself talking freely. The warmth of new friendship surrounded them as she began her first day in the college.

Someone… Somewhere


atulIt’s been over a year and I haven’t removed your number from my phone book yet. Somehow your name there is a reassurance to me. No, I don’t expect to hear from you… not anymore, but still your virtual presence allows me to go back and read all the conversations we had, the occasional plans we made and the little problems we discussed. Those problems, insurmountable then, seem so small now, so tiny…

Wonder if there is some place from where you can see what’s happening in this world. While part of me hopes that you can watch us, I also know that you will be worried sick, and frustrated at little things simply because they are not in your control and are not going the way you would want them to be. I’d rather prefer you being in a place where you can sit peacefully with your two dogs and hum the Star Wars OST.

I know you are doing that right now.

The perfect fit.

As the clock struck 12, she ran home and left one of her slippers behind. She reached home and slept restless, wondering what fate has in store for her the next day which was also the first day of the new year.

The door bell rang, the next day,  Anastasia opened the door of their dilapidated castle hoping and wishing very hard for the fortunes to change. He came in, demanding to see the women of the house and a glimmer of hope crossed all their faces as they saw the shining glass slipper being placed on the floor. Anastasia tried it, so did others, even the household help.

And then Drizella tried it, and it fit her, for, after all the shoe belonged to her. The shoe which Cinderella stole and wore to Prince Charming’s ball, the shoe that slipped off her foot when she ran because it was a poor fit.