Dear Dad, this piece I write for you. For I can see you getting old and frail day by day, forgetful and lonely. You are old you say--94 years old--though we dispute your claim. Though your eyes are a faded blue-grey (they were always a little blue, a little grey) , there is still a twinkle in them when you smile. All your teeth are yours, and aren't you proud of them! You are independent, needing little help. Best of all you are still spirited and young at heart.
But you are tired, driven only by your will and perhaps your love so strong for us. You can't hear us speak and hate to use a hearing aid, you can't see much with cataract and age taking their toll, you barely eat, yet you are full of life.
Your memories are all a jumble of near and far, you make up stories of adventure like a five year old boy: of travelling by metro when you've never been near one; of walking from Faridabad to Delhi, when you can barely walk till the end of the road, of your days of struggle in Calcutta and your years as a humble, shy village kid in an all English school. Your tales are many and often repeated; yet you never tire of telling them.
You hum some long-forgotten tunes while sitting alone, lost somewhere in near and far and beat head as though it were the tabla that you had once learnt. You say time is of no importance to you now, yet wear a watch gifted by your grandson and live by its minutes, nay seconds. You wait for Saturday each day and on Saturday wait for me to come, though we can hardly talk much, yet you are sit through all the family conversations just watching our happy, laughing faces, or sit up at attention at the whiff of someone in stress, wanting to know what's wrong.
Every time you are ill, I go through the heart wrenching thought that I may lose you forever, yet I pray not for you to live but for you to go, without pain or trouble. We have telepathy, believe you me, for every time you think of me or ask ma for me, I am also thinking of you. You can sense when I am in stress or unwell and will ask ma to know if all is well. I am also thinking of you dad, and tell ma, I have been thinking of dad too, is he well?
We had your eldest grandson down here from the US, and clicked many snaps with you in the centre, for he knows this may be the last time he sees you before you go. We know it too.
You want me to write a book, you have been inspiring me to do one since you came to know my talent. Yet, I cannot pen one yet, for I want to write about you--of your struggles, of truth, honesty and justice, of haves and have nots, of dreaming big and making it bigger, of losing all yet not losing sanity, of rebuilding life from scratch, of love and giving...and many more good things I learnt from you.
You were up at my side when I gave my exams, urging me to sleep and not fret, keep the books under my pillow and all will go into my head. And, I believed you. You helped with debates, were my lone audience and critic when I practiced for elocution, were there to watch essay various roles on stage, were always there for me and me alone.
Love you dad, will complete this piece one day and will perhaps make it the preface of the book I pen one day...
