Beyond words

The first time I remember having seen my father swim in the ferocious waters of the Bay of Bengal at Jagannath Puri in Orissa, I must have b...

The first time I remember having seen my father swim in the ferocious waters of the Bay of Bengal at Jagannath Puri in Orissa, I must have been about four years old. As a boisterous wave engulfed him for those few minutes, the thought that he might not ever surface again must have unnerved me so much that I let out an inconsolable cry. This compelled him to instantly forget his passion for swimming in the sea.

Baba, as he was called, was a tough disciplinarian, who never raised his voice when angry, but his bloodshot red eyes sent a terse and scary message, enough to freeze us. However, beneath this tough exterior was a heart of gold that re-surfaced every now and then, making us forget his strictness.

When I was in primary school, sometimes the servant would drop me to school on a bicycle, when Baba couldn8217;t. Once, my right foot got caught in the spokes of the wheel and remained sprained for almost a month. Baba was a government servant, but a very hard worker. He came home beyond 6 p.m. 8212; much to my mother8217;s consternation. But every night, after dinner, he would gently massage my injured foot and say how bad he felt about the injury. We were hardly pampered, but whenever we were ill, he8217;d nurse us like a mother.

He was very kind. Once, a stranger, a poor man, knocked at the door around 9 p.m. saying he was very hungry. So he asked the servant to specially cook rice and dal in good quantity and gave him a hearty meal. In fact, whenever anyone needed money for illness or for any other personal reason, Baba would be only too delighted to help. It gave him some kind of a special pleasure.

When I became a teenager, he was extremely possessive about me and ensured no boy ever talked to me. He reprimanded me if I sat in the verandah, which anyway was well inside the house, thanks to the sprawling garden around it. Later then his attention shifted towards my sisters and brother, as I gained independence during college I was staying in a hostel and after marriage. He continued to be a concerned father, writing warm letters he was in Orissa and I in Pune and his eyes would glow to see me happy and fine.

He then shifted to Pune, he was old and ridden with Parkinson8217;s. He suddenly was caught in the whirlpool of loneliness as his stiffened muscles and the slur in his tongue made mobility and communication difficult. But each time he saw any of us, his eyes glowed 8212; he was desperate to say something, but was left speechless at the end of it. Nevertheless, he lay on his water mattress, helplessly watching the world, probably with a turmoil churning within him. And whenever we had time, we watched him, and sat next to him. Probably, it made him feel better.

Finally, the end came recently, one fine morning. He just went away, leaving behind a flood of memories and a stamp of a unique father who got away with the fire in his bloodshot eyes, all because of a golden heart.