I look out of the window from Abba’s room. The first showers of the monsoon have freshly bathed the trees. The sky is blue, the grass green, the gulmohar resplendent in full bloom. I turn back to look inside the room. Books lined neatly on the shelves. His spectacles, writing pad, Mont Blanc pen lie in wait for pen to be put to paper and new verse to flow…. Everything is the way it was…but Abba is not there.
Anees Jung, in a letter of condolence to me writes, “I know what the loss of a parent means Shabana. I also know one never loses a parent. In a strange, mystical way they become closer in death, for their spirit no longer trapped in a frail frame becomes all pervasive and surrounds us like the air we breathe”. I try to find solace in her words.
Today, as I remember Abba on Father’s Day, I realise that for me, it is no different from any other day. No single day passes by without me clocking in a memory of him. He is with me constantly; I talk to him, seek his advice, share little jokes, exchange glances almost as if he has never gone away. Baba, my younger brother keeps gently encouraging me to remember Abba not with pain but with joy because his was a rich life well lived inspite of his paralysis. I, in turn, try to encourage my mother to do the same. Her sense of loss keeps weighing her down inspite of her best efforts – it was a partnership of 55 years – they understood each other almost by osmosis. Often we are able to comfort each other but in the least expected moments, the pain of his loss surfaces from beneath our suppressed emotions and catches us unawares.
Abba was not only my father; he was my mentor, my guru, my friend. In the last few months of his illness, as he lay in the ICU with tubes down his stomach, throat and neck, he could not speak and yet we managed to communicate. He would raise his eyebrow, squeeze my hand indicate with his eyes and I would understand. In the same way I understand what our granddaughter Shakya wants, although she is not yet able to speak. Abba in any case was given to long silences. He spoke both through his words and through his silences….
He fell silent much before the tubes were physically put to him. The Gujarat carnage shattered him. I would watch him as he looked at the television coverage, face frozen in pain. With tears streaming down my eyes I asked, “Don’t you feel frustrated and defeated as you see the mindless killings, the hateful revenge, man killing man in the name of religion?”
He wiped my tears and said quietly, “When one is working for change, one should bring into that expectation, the possibility that the change may not occur in one’s lifetime; and yet one must carry on working towards it.”
It was his faith, his belief in the innate goodness of man that kept him going through the darkest of times.
‘Pyar ka jashn nai tarah manana hoga / Gam kisi dil mein sahi gam ko mitana hoga’
(‘New ways must be found to celebrate love / Grief in whosever’s heart must be erased’).
In attempting to wipe the tears of the victims of the Gujarat carnage and thousands of others who have fallen prey to communal riots, in trying to wipe the tears of slum dwellers constantly displaced by mindless government policies, in striving to wipe the tears of all marginalised sections of society, particularly women, would I have also paid tribute to my father, a giant amongst men?
‘Koi to sood chukaye, koi to zimma le / Us inquilab ka jo aaj tak udhaar sa hai’
( If only someone would repay the loan, assume responsibility / for the revolution that until now appears like a debt’ )
You envelope me like the air I breathe Abba. I promise to turn my personal loss into an Armour like you have always done, and carry on with the work you left behind.
You are watching over us, aren’t you?
You Are Always With Me Abba
