To my father
On this day, seventeen years back, you said goodbye to me. I should admit, I no longer hero-worship you. I can go on for days or months without thinking about you. Every child who was treated well by their parents remembers them fondly. I am no different. Many times I felt like writing about you, but I never did. It was not that I was uncomfortable. But I knew I could never fully capture what you mean to me in words.
Seventeen years is too long a time. I have gone through many rollercoasters. Time is a weird creature; it does an excellent job of brushing things under the carpet. It gives one an illusion that you have moved on. But did I? I am not sure.
Despite being comfortable with your absence, I think about you every time I hear about someone losing a parent. I am at a loss for words.
Some awkwardness creeps in. I have never figured out how to console a person. I know how debilitating it can be and how ineffective the best of condolences are.
When those unpleasant memories pounce on me, I am helpless at times, but mostly I am stoic like the way I was at your funeral. Maybe the passage of time and my emotional growth has mitigated my pain. Maybe painful memories are like scars it leaves a mark for sure at times it pains, but you learn to feel it and smile over time.
At times I think about how one can get over grief? Perhaps there is no way. Every religion prescribes some mourning period for the departed that all mourning periods must come to an end. Maybe the person who made these rules realised the pointlessness of suffering beyond a point.
Over time I have learnt to smile. Mentors, teachers, an ex-girlfriend, some relatives, friends and my mother, more than anybody else, gave me more happiness than Iever hoped for. My mother pampered me more than you ever did. And went out of the way (well, that would be an understatement. I can never come up with enough words to describe how she evolved and how comfortable she made life for me.)
Like you, my friends mean the world to me.
The little savings that you, my grandparents and my mother left me has given me a comfortable life. It helped me to go to an expensive school and college. It gave me the luxury to brood. For I know trauma is an inherent part of human existence, and the more money you have, the more time you can afford to remain sad. The nest egg gave me enough time to be sad but not the luxury to stay low for a long time. A perfect balance, I would say. In other words, a middle-class life.
And I realise that I am a product of privilege than perseverance. It gave me the freedom to do more stupid things than my peers, to squander opportunities, be irresponsible, and get into trouble but somehow manage to survive.
The love for words you instilled in me is helping me to make a living even when i screwed up everything else. The bedtime conversations about everything under the sun make some think I am well informed.
However, i know i just picked a lot of it from those conversations. We discussed a range of topics Rajiv and Sanjay Gandhi, Osho, Sholay, Sam Pitroda, Cho, ISRO, Kamal Hassan, Soviet Union, and many other things. About your travels, about your favourite drinking hole and the insteresting people you met there.
I realised a bit late that I was your mother’s favourite grandchild, but i knew it was a privilege i got because I was your son. For there was no doubt, you were her favourite child. And my mother never misses an opportunity to remind me how much you adored your mother and how I pale in comparison. But what do I do? I can never be the son you were. I don’t know whether I will have the bandwidth to be a wonderful parent like you.
I smirk whenever someone calls me by your name. People say you look dapper when they see your older pictures when you were young, fit and dressed well. And I feel jealous.
Mr Sethuraman, I hope to make you proud someday. To be the best of what you once were and all that you could have been.
