Begining

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Honestly speaking, I have never been very fond of my father. As said earlier, I didn’t see him ever in my life after the age of eight. If I were to count the number of memories of my father, they would surely not exceed the fingers of my one hand. Yes, I remember him taking me on his bike to see the fountain at the water purification plant. I have memory of him bringing sweets and toys. I remember, once he promised me to take to Mumbai, but didn’t keep his promise. And of course I remember his parting speech. That’s it. The memories end there. I never missed him. He remained in my life like a mark left behind by a wound that has been healed. He is just a memory, that doesn’t hurt me anymore, that doesn’t affect me anymore.

Had anyone told me that I would take a trip of hundreds of kilometers just for the sake of my father, who was no longer alive, I would have laughed in disbelief. But people change, circumstances compel them to change. For me, it was my mother lying on her death bed.

She was sixty-four, old but not old enough to die. She had a tough life, and the burrows on her forehead were permanent. I had got to accustomed to them. But I had never seen her fall ill, not until that day.

Her frail body was covered in the oversized green uniform provided by the hospital. She had difficulty in breathing. Her face was covered in oxygen mask. Her left arm puckered with a syringe, a drip carrying the intravenous medicines. What was taken to be a common cold turned out to be a case of acute pneumonia. Whenever, I enquired about her health to the doctor on duty, I got the same answer, ‘We are trying our best.’ I could sense the pessimistic tone in their voice.

On the day she breathed her last, she had raised her hand a slight to summon me. I rushed to her, and asked her to rest. But she held my hand tightly.

‘Remove this,’ She said in a feeble voice.  I tried to resist her demand, but her countenance conveyed she had something very important to say. I pulled her mask up to the chin.
‘You must rest,’ I said.

‘I… am not left with much time,’ She said and gasped for breath. I placed the oxygen mask back on her mouth. She continued talking to me in a muffled voice, ‘I always felt your father was wrong. I played the victim card to the hilt. But today in these final moments of my life, I feel maybe I was wrong. There is always other side of the coin too. Maybe he too had his version of things, something which I never wanted to listen...’ Then she burst into a bout of cough. The cough stopped in a few minutes. She looked towards the sky and she was gone.

‘I feel it was her last wish that I should try to discern my father’s side of the story. But what would others feel? They would say what kind of son is this who has come in search of his father after more than two decades. I really don’t know what to do,’ I said to Guruji.
‘Don’t worry about how others judge you. Worry about how you judge yourself. That is the only thing that matters’ Guruji said.

Still, I was confused. I had lived for twenty-two years without a father. Now, I had a well-paying job. Why should I go in search of him? What would I gain by doing so? Guruji says that everything of the dead goes with the dead. Whether you conduct the last rites or not the dead march ahead as per their karma. You hold no responsibility towards the dead. But you certainly owe a responsibility towards yourself.

Was my mother trying to forgive him in the last moments of death? Why hadn’t she told me this before? Why didn’t she encourage me to keep in touch with my father, and most importantly, why didn’t she tell me the complete sequence of events that had led to her separation with my father. I remember I had prodded her about it multiple times as a kid and as an adult. She always skirted the question. At times had tears in her eyes, but she never told me anything, absolutely nothing. I always got an inkling that all was not well between them, even when my father visited us. But I was not able to exactly pinpoint what was it.

After a certain time, even the dead parents remain like a memory, for some a sweet memory. With time we accept that the dead are not going to return. But my wound was raw. Like every prodigal son, I thought my mother would never die. At least not so soon. When she died, I was ridden with guilt. I remembered the times, when I could feel she yearned for my company. But she was always so remorseful that I couldn’t withstand her. I would spend my time with my friends merry-making. At that time, I felt I was not wrong. After all I too had the right to be happy. But now that she is gone, I feel I was wrong. Her life was one of constant struggles. There was no one apart from with whom she could share her sorrows. But I had erred in not being with her. Perhaps my youth was to be blamed. Whatever, may be the reason, now I was filled with guilt up to the brim.
 
I slept over things. When I woke up in the morning, pulled the curtains aside and looked out of the window, I could see the city slowly waking up from its slumber. The school children on their way to school in their blue-green uniforms. The milkmen, capaciously balancing the huge milk cans on both sides of their motorcycles and young boys in their shorts pedaling with a sense of urgency with sheafs of newspapers attached to their carriers. In those mundane moments, I got my answer. I had to go.

***

The car came out of the bursting crowds of Delhi and took a road with swaying yellow mustard fields on both its sides. I opened the window and a cool fresh breeze of air carrying the fragrance of moist dust and green vegetation entered my system. It soothed my senses and I fell asleep.

‘Here we come to your destination,’ said the Sardar.
My eyes lids were heavy and I felt disoriented. Slowly  I came back to my senses and got out of the taxi.

‘You have got a lovely house Sir.’ The Sardar said in a friendly voice. I didn’t feel the need to clarify him that it wasn’t my house.  I paid him the fare and picked my luggage. 

There stood an old house made up of red bricks on a hillock. A spiraling stairs that ran through the flower beds  of various tints lead to the house. An old woman dressed in a blue salwar kameez, made her eyes small and tried to gauge who I was.
‘Convey my namaste to your mother,’ said the driver as he turned the car and went away.

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