To Bapa, with Love

Bapa.

How do I remember him?

He was and still is my ideal man. Even though what I remember is patchy, mixed and to some extent formed to fill up the blank spaces in the way I want it to be filled.

I have forgotten the words. I am not sure I remember the sound of his voice. I have a feeling that I know how it was, his “yes, please” instead of the usual “hello” when he received phone calls is the closest to it.

I have several pictures of him. He sitting on the white netted chair under the fan and having tea in the morning, wearing his white kurta pajama. Sometimes a half sweater on it, and very rarely a monkey cap half folded. Or he would be sitting on his chair near the writing desk, with those black specs on him, and using an ink pen to write a poem, or check the articles that would have come for Samaroha. His sparse white hair set in place by Vaseline, slightly perfumed oil. And his tin cup; the one he used to keep the water, while he shaved. He would dip the brush now and then while looking into the flip-over mirror, which had one concave glass and another flat one. The mirror used to amuse me and I would keep flipping them over to see how I look in both. Narcissism had caught on very early with me.

I also remember his fat police stick, which he used to take when he went for his morning walks in order to shoo away the dogs. And I think he had a rifle, which was too heavy for me to lift.

And I remember his smile. He would smile when he would be talking animatedly to a 3 year old child and shyly when he would be talking to a 78 year old man. He could converse with just about anyone, an art I have always tried to learn, but have managed to do very rarely. He would smile when we would come in the holidays, and wave back from the gate with a prayer on his lips “Durge Durgati Nashani…” when we would be leaving. I can never forget his “Bhaja Govindam, Smar Govindam, Mudha Mate” and the later addition of “Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha Trahimam, Shri Ganesha Shri Ganesha Shri Ganesha Rakhyamam…” which he would unabashedly sing loud and clear every single evening. The discipline and routine was something I could never follow.

Discipline. He was a disciplinarian who followed the ‘lead by example’ philosophy. I don’t remember him telling me to wear slippers when we go out, but he would always wear them. I don’t remember him telling me to brush my teeth twice every day, but he would not forget to do that. He never told me not to waste food, or to appreciate it, but his plate would always be clean and he would get up saying “divya bhojana te hela”.

I remember his discomfort in not being able to say the truth about Maa’s surprise trip to meet us.

“Bapa, where is Ma?”

On the phone, silence for a few seconds.

“How do I say it? I cannot tell you where she is. May be she is taking a shower. Tell me about your best friend. How is Apala?” trying real hard to steer away from the lie territory. And, well, for me friends were all that I cared to talk about, so his awkwardness went unnoticed till Maa arrived within an hour at our doorstep, and I looked at her confusedly “But you were taking a shower in Bhubaneswar an hour back. How can you be here? Bapa can’t lie!” I guess I know how Drona would have felt when he died and realised the half lie of Yuddhishthira. It was incredulous and almost impossible for me to think that he could have not spoken anything but the truth.

And the white leaved tree, which has forever remained as Bapa’s “snow tree” in my head. In the foggy winter mornings of Rourkela, he saw these trees from far and thought that snow had fallen on them. It was only when he went real close, that he saw that they had white leaves. Mom planted that tree at the entrance, only for him.

I remember him putting his chin on our refrigerator, nodding his head, while listening to the song “Dil hai chhota sa, chhoti si asha” from the film Roja. He loved that song, and the song always reminds me of him.

Bapa, and his love for his briefcase: the source of my extreme jealousy for Bhaina. He had the rights to open it, while I did not. He was also the one who got longer letters from Bapa, while I got the smaller ones. I compared. I still do.

We were all given different tasks. Mahatma was to look at the letters I think, Florence had something, Newton had another one and I think Besant had to open the door when the bell rings and mix the Isabgol powder and give it to Bapa every morning. What importance I felt in doing my job!

“Bapa, is it okay to feel proud, but not really show it to others, or speak it out?”

This question came after he told me about the sins that we should avoid: Ahankar, Abhimaan, Lobha, Krodha, Kama, Irshya, Alasya… if I remember correctly.

“No. Even when you don’t say it, people feel it. And even if they don’t feel it, it is not a good thing to have in you. It will not make you perfect.”

Have I followed it? Not always. But that has managed to keep me closer to the ground, than I would be if he had not told me.

And he has told me innumerable things. Through his stories in the afternoon, be it the Bhoota Bhootooni or some mythological one or the rajkumar one or any other story, I would wait for lunch to get over so that I would hear a new story. I am yet to completely understand why he would make me the writer of the poems he dictated. I remember the astonishment on my Oriya sir’s (Mr. J.N.Das) face to see a poem written by me, being published in Samaja. How could I tell him that I just wrote the words on paper, but it was created by Bapa?

I remember pressing his legs and his back and looking at the sutures on his chest after his heart surgery and rubbing them softly, because he felt better that way and with nervous hands massage his neck, fearing that I might hurt him inadvertently. I could stand on his legs and walk on them to make him feel better. That makes me feel, there was a point of time when I was not THIS fat and people could take my weight! But, on the other hand, they chose me rather than Mona Nani, because I had substantial weight to make some impact. Well, whatever.

And I remember the cold legs, when I touched him the last time. And I remember my extreme hatred for the relatives who were making Runu Nani cry by making her wear bangles and re-telling the entire story.

In a weird way, I did not want to show people that I would cry for him. I, who would cry at the drop of a hat, or sometimes by the mere suggestion of anything, just did not want to cry. I hid in OAE-2 and cried. And when the tears came in front of people, I said I was crying because I could not go to the picnic which I had taken all the pains to organize. I wanted to peep into the room which had the lamp lit throughout the night, hoping to catch a glimpse. Of what, I don’t really know.

Why am I writing all this? It could be because, I am sad that I could not spend the more conscious period of my life with him. I love his book collection, but it never occurred to me to read the books he wrote. And when I did, I realised how far back I had sent him from me, and I am trying to get back again.

With Love,

Annie.