In memoriam

Last month marked a completion of twenty years since I lost my father. If you ask me what is the exact date that he passed away, I will not be able to tell you. I am fully aware that it was during the end of May in 1995, but other than that trivial detail, my brain freezes and draws a blank. I have somehow erased this most painful event of my life from my subconscious. It is like I know it and, at the same time, I do not know it. 

What is the duration of the acceptable period when one should stop grieving for one’s parent? Six months? One year? Five years? People say that time heals all wounds but two decades later I find myself still mourning my Dad’s loss. 

The area of the sadness has widened to include other factors too. As I grow older I feel I’m being surrounded by rational and irrational doubts. When faced with a tricky situation I am scared I might not do what my father would have wanted me to do. When I take a responsible decision I am afraid to fall short of his expectations. Without his guidance I do not know if the choices I am making are indeed the right ones. 

And then there are my tiny worries like: have I forgotten the exact sound of his voice, the feel of his loving hand on top of my head or the smell of his Old Spice After Shave Lotion? I realise it is no longer possible, but is there any way to crosscheck this? 

I try to discover bits of him in me. His friends say I laugh just like my father used to, so when I see something funny I attempt to listen to my own laughter. It is most heartening to realise that I have inherited this trait from him. 

He never held back while poking fun at himself and nor do I. He had great comic timing while relating stories and trained me in the delightful art of self-deprecation. 

Humility and modesty were his hallmarks and he had great compassion for all creatures, great and small. Appreciation of the arts was very important to him. Music, vocal or instrumental, poetry or verse, was not only listened to but was also appreciated in a most enthusiastic manner, so as to inspire the performer

My dad was generous with his time, praise and affection. Even in my lowest moments, when I was missing him like crazy, I could not stop thanking God for that. Although his lifespan in this world was truncated, he never rushed me with anything. I knew I was loved unconditionally and I had his absolute support in whatever I did. 

His name was Satya, which means ‘truth’. He taught me to be truthful, regardless of the consequences. And I learnt the lesson well. 

“Where are the goods that you bought”, the VAT refund officer asked me at Heathrow airport, recently. 

“In my checked-in luggage”, I told him, showing the receipts. 

“You have to display the purchase for inspection” he clarified.

“I know”, I admitted. 

“You knew the law and still broke it?’ he was curious. 

“My cabin baggage was becoming too heavy,” I answered. 

“So you forgot the rule?” he asked. 

“I didn’t. My father taught me to be truthful,” I said.

He eyed me solemnly through the small window. 

“Like father, like daughter,” he sighed, handing me the cash.