LETTER TO FATHER
Dear father,
It’s been a long time since I wrote to you. The advent of mobile phone has stolen the sheen of the good old letter writing . Letters that could pack in themselves some unsaid emotions that the words so easily conveyed. I remember fondly that the letters that I wrote to you from school were almost always an experiment for me in dabbling with the English language. I was, of course, discovering the magic in those prose, little aware that reading and understanding the words was difficult for you. That you used to get one of your English affluent colleagues to decipher the meaning of my words did little to hamper my continued experimentation. One of those many things that I failed to appreciate and understand.
But, it is not to reflect upon those letters that I write to you today. I have picked up the pen to share with you, my unbounded joy of visiting our home town after a gap and reliving our good old days in the simple environs of a calm and laid back place like Bilaspur. It won’t be a cliché to say that not much has changed. But the changes that have happened will leave us with a tinge of nostalgia and an acute pain of no longer being a part of the city which, for so long was our home.
The railway station has undergone a massive transformation. I guess your old office has also shifted. I searched for it, but in vain. I also tried to scout out a few of your colleagues, but I found none. All those trains streaming in reminded me of those old days when I sometimes used to accompany you in the tight confines of the Diesel engine and later on the Electric ones. I tried to figure you standing inside the engine, looking out for the signal as the locomotive cooed onto the platform. As I trudged along the platform, I saw the same old black coloured standard sized boxes bearing the names of their owners and in that instant, I saw the image of your box in my mind – ‘SJ Pantulu, Driver, Bilaspur Division’.
I then went off to each of the houses that we stayed in. My earliest memories were of the one room quarter in the old Loco colony. To my surprise, it is still standing strong. But it seemed so small to me that I wondered how we could have lived there so happily all those years ago. I then went to the house in Wireless Colony. To my surprise, it was in ruins. I was aghast at the sight. The best memories of my childhood were associated with that home. Here was the place where I learnt to play cricket, made the best of my friends and started understanding our overall situation and also was introduced to the vagaries of life, obstacles, problems and yet how to stay happy and content. The Mango trees that we had planted as kids had been uprooted too. I came away from there, a piece of me, left behind at my favourite home.
As I was driving through those narrow roads, I crossed many a people cycling away to work and I felt it was you, with your black bag, tucked behind on the cycle carrier, pedaling away to work, come sunshine, cold or rain. I so wished you would turn back and smile at me. I also went to the house which I only used to visit as a guest, on my vacations from Sainik School and later on, NDA. I fondly remembered the kind of excitement you all showed when I was home, preparing the choicest of dishes for me and leaving the TV completely free for me to view to my heart’s content. The taste of the special spicy curry that you used to prepare still lingers in my mouth.
How can I not mention to you the excitement I felt when I passed the vegetable market? We used to go to this place once a week, me, piggy riding on that Atlas cycle of yours, holding those massive cloth bags to accommodate the truck load of vegetables that we were going to bring home. I still cannot erase my memory of your unadulterated enthusiasm in selecting the vegetables and driving a hard bargain. Vegetable shopping was almost like a religion to you. Can’t we go back to that market one more time and soak in the unbridled joy of such a simple pleasure of life?
And, finally, the day you retired from the Railways. I recall your relief as well as the grief you felt at having to bow out of the life that you had lived for the last 33 years. Your emotional Farewell speech, flanked by the juniors that you had mentored, choke me up too. But I was also happy that years of active work were finally behind you. They gave you a worthy send off. I could see how much you meant to them all. One would have thought that after the retirement, we could spend more time together – as Father and Son, sharing joy and sorrows in only the manner that a father – son duo could. How did we fall apart? We kept drifting away to an extent where it became irrevocable to get back.
I wish you were here today. I have so much to tell you. Lots of good stuff to share, some agonies to narrate, places to visit and people to introduce. I wish you were here to see your grandson wreck havoc, throw caution to winds and make life sweetly miserable for us. I wish you were here to play with him, talk to him, tell him how good I was when I was his age (!) and give him the pleasure of having a grand dad by his side. I wish we could go into the forests of Kanha together and unlike the last time when we came back empty handed, I wish we could sight a Tiger together.
Do you remember our constant debates on the state of Indian cricket? Your disappointment vs my optimism? I wish we could watch matches together. I especially missed your company when the Indian Test Team was defying odds upon odds in scripting a marvelous ‘come from behind ‘Victory on the Australian soil. I wish we could discuss Virat, the way we used to discuss Sachin. How I wish, I could gather all my unfulfilled desires and go back in time to sit with you and share it all. Alas, if only we could go back in time.
I wish I could sit across from you and tell you that I realise how much you sacrificed for me, in giving me a decent education and the opportunity to do well in life. I want to acknowledge your efforts and contribution. I want to tell you, at least once, how much I love you. Why I never said while I still had the chance, beats me. I want to say all those things that I left unsaid all these years. I had the chance to say it to you face to face, but I didn’t. Now I feel the urge to say it but you are no longer with me. I wish you could come back one last time and give me a shot at redemption. I wish.
Hindsight is a tortuous thing. It tells you that you should have done the things when you still had the chance rather than rue after the deed is done. I know I should have done all these while you were still alive, I know it. But its too late. I wish you can forgive my insolence and stay content wherever you are now. I wish all kids realise that the opportunity to show their love, affection and gratitude to a parent should never be lost. Say it when you still can, or you will rue it after they are gone.
Rest in Peace dear father. I love you.
