The journey from home to eternity

Mom and Dad had been together over 50 years when he passed. Five rich decades that gave them much to be proud of, to reflect upon and learn from, and to use as fuel for better outcomes in trying times when their humanity would be challenged and questioned, rattled and shaken. They met as teens and had a love marriage in 1967 in India where such nuptials were very uncommon. He became a part of Mum’s family, so much so that her siblings, who had addressed him by his name till that moment, started calling him Bhaisahab, a respected elder brother. In the relationship between my father and my mum’s siblings, I saw the fruits of an investment that turns outsiders into family.

Papa could talk both sides of a question and, in doing so, give comfort and frustration, hope and questioning, love and hunger to those he spoke with and those watching the exchange. I remember well Papa’s bestie, Ajay Kumar, a man who visited our home daily with Aunty Abha, his wife, and my other mother. After their habitual morning walk, they would visit, and no morning would end without robust arguments about the politics of the nation, social values, and topics that touched on their combined morals. Papa would go against his own beliefs to heat up the mood and make Uncle argue his side to give us kids a lesson in history and politics and on debating and conversing. A dozen-plus years after Papa’s passing and a few short years after we lost Aunty and Uncle Kumar to Covid within days of each other, I find myself in Papa and Uncle’s awe for having given us kids the best tutelage on life and living, on understanding the pulse of the nation, on scratching deeply beneath the surface, and never settling for mediocrity and comfortable answers.

Papa was the tough one, I thought, but in hindsight, I realise it was Mom who was tough. When I outed myself to them as being gay, Mom was the one with the questions that scratched beneath the surface. Papa would remain calm and play composed. When Newsweek magazine reviewed the opening of my first restaurant in India, Veda, where I had partnered with my bestie Rohit Bal, and my New York partner of our restaurant Devi, Rakesh Agrawal, their feature on me shared with millions across the world that I was a gay man. The issue came out while I was in Delhi and staying at my parents’ home. It hit the stands on Monday morning, and I made sure I didn’t come home till late into the night. I thought Papa would be asleep, but he called for me when he heard me arrive. He was recovering from a dangerous stay at the hospital where we had almost lost him, and this was his first night at home, miraculously so. When I arrived at his bedside, he reached for my hand, and in his faint and exhausted voice told me that he was most proud of me. He said he was thrilled that in outing myself I had given millions of kids my skin colour and other shades of brown and black a role model the world celebrated and held with respect and admiration. He went further and said I had provided for them what I never had: a person to connect with, to aspire to and fashion myself after; and with moist eyes, he kissed my hands. My trip home from New York to Delhi had been one of fear about how Mom and Dad would take Newsweek using my sexuality as a small step in normalising homosexuality for a young nation, albeit an old civilisation. Papa’s reaction, which I know had been articulated after meaningful and deep discussion with my mother, his beloved wife and best friend, was the affection that a smart man comes to after deliberation and thoughtful introspection. This same collegiality of thought and action that he worked on with my mum made him accept my choosing art school over my other love, medicine, which was more in sync with his own gut.

When Papa passed, my sister Seema reminded us that we had lost him in the physical form but that he was living and ticking in our shared DNA. This knowledge has been the greatest eye-opener and gift that Papa gave us in his passing. Our hopelessness at his death, our pain and suffering because of the finality of this loss – it was bigger than anything we had prepared ourselves for and came with no salve or solution. Luckily, I now find my Papa with me every breath that I breathe. He never leaves me. The realisation that he is in my blood, that he is part of me and I of him, has freed me of the suffering that comes from being consumed by the cycle of mortal life and death. In connecting with Papa at this level of familial union, I am never bereft of his company and counsel, of his support and love, his guidance and his questioning. I only have to go inside me, and both the questions and answers, the doubts and assurances, the direction and suggestions, all come to me with the same clarity of thought and action that symbolised Papa.

June 1 was when we lost Papa to this world but was the day I found him connected to me in a holistic fashion, immortalised by our relationship and for eternity. Tears for his loss have turned into smiles that are my strength as I struggle with the challenges of life. Those smiles turn into gratitude for having had the blessing of being born to a man who devoted his life to his family, his wife and his kids, his friends, and to strangers he easily turned into supplicants and admirers because of his hungry brand of living, loving and caring.