Dadu
Dadu passed away last sunday. It was not sudden, and we were expecting it. It was after more than three years of uncomfortable, even painful existence on a bed with half of his body paralyzed, and his speech completely impaired. But he was there. He was still there, a permanent presence on that bed. I could not think of my house without him.
It was only in the last few months when I had come face to face with the fact that soon, he would go. He had not spoken for a very long time, and I am not sure how much he understood of what we said. But still, whenever I would visit home, I would tell him all about my life in Delhi, and about my trips abroad. I was sure he understood some of it, for I did not miss the feeble smiles and the odd tear. Whenever I would go out of the house even for an hour, and pass his bed, I would always tell him I was leaving, a habit from old times. To me, dadu lying powerless on the bed had a more commanding presence than most others in the house.
Dadu loved us. He loved everybody. I very clearly remember lying on a bed in the verandah of the house on a summer night, when I was no more than seven or eight years old, with dadu sitting at my feet, telling a perfectly believable story about two rabbits who collaborated with a deer to kill the tiger, the jungle tyrant. Much to our pleasure, he would never run out of stories, as he could always come up with variations of the master story about a bunch of feeble animals bashing up the tiger. He knew what we liked.
When I grew somewhat older, I had a tutor who would come home to teach. Dadu would always sit there, or in hearing distance, and monitor the teacher to know if he really was doing fine. He would play badminton with me in the house when none of my friends turned up in the evening. It was difficult for him, but he did all he could. He even played cricket with me, I remember, holding the bat very awkwardly with his hand. Of course he could not run, nor did he need to. It was enough for me that I actually had someone to play with.
He would always save us from the hands of our strict "disciplinarian" mother. It was due to him that I could sometimes escape taking bath on winters. And he would come to my sister's rescue when she was in for an impending bashing from ma because she could not figure out how many decagrams made a ton.
We grew up, and there were no more stories to tell, and no more bashings to save us from. But I knew that there was nothing that pained dadu more than seeing us unhappy.
Dadu's death was not a shock. It was coming. I met him only one week before he passed away, and I had told him I would see him again soon. He had, with much difficulty, raised his hand to hold mine. Then, much as I knew he isn't with us for long, I hadn't known I would not see him again.
When I heard of his death, I did not even cry. It was not something that could break someone down. It is, I now realize, a quiet, subtle feeling of loss. One that hits you without warning, as you lie on your bed on a quiet, dark night.
It was only in the last few months when I had come face to face with the fact that soon, he would go. He had not spoken for a very long time, and I am not sure how much he understood of what we said. But still, whenever I would visit home, I would tell him all about my life in Delhi, and about my trips abroad. I was sure he understood some of it, for I did not miss the feeble smiles and the odd tear. Whenever I would go out of the house even for an hour, and pass his bed, I would always tell him I was leaving, a habit from old times. To me, dadu lying powerless on the bed had a more commanding presence than most others in the house.
Dadu loved us. He loved everybody. I very clearly remember lying on a bed in the verandah of the house on a summer night, when I was no more than seven or eight years old, with dadu sitting at my feet, telling a perfectly believable story about two rabbits who collaborated with a deer to kill the tiger, the jungle tyrant. Much to our pleasure, he would never run out of stories, as he could always come up with variations of the master story about a bunch of feeble animals bashing up the tiger. He knew what we liked.
When I grew somewhat older, I had a tutor who would come home to teach. Dadu would always sit there, or in hearing distance, and monitor the teacher to know if he really was doing fine. He would play badminton with me in the house when none of my friends turned up in the evening. It was difficult for him, but he did all he could. He even played cricket with me, I remember, holding the bat very awkwardly with his hand. Of course he could not run, nor did he need to. It was enough for me that I actually had someone to play with.
He would always save us from the hands of our strict "disciplinarian" mother. It was due to him that I could sometimes escape taking bath on winters. And he would come to my sister's rescue when she was in for an impending bashing from ma because she could not figure out how many decagrams made a ton.
We grew up, and there were no more stories to tell, and no more bashings to save us from. But I knew that there was nothing that pained dadu more than seeing us unhappy.
Dadu's death was not a shock. It was coming. I met him only one week before he passed away, and I had told him I would see him again soon. He had, with much difficulty, raised his hand to hold mine. Then, much as I knew he isn't with us for long, I hadn't known I would not see him again.
When I heard of his death, I did not even cry. It was not something that could break someone down. It is, I now realize, a quiet, subtle feeling of loss. One that hits you without warning, as you lie on your bed on a quiet, dark night.
posted by niraj at 3:12 AM
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