Part I
As someone
who is skeptical about the survival of the soul beyond the life of the body, my
father's death is an event of finality. I don't believe that he is watching us
from anywhere. I have no expectation or hope that I will be reunited with him
in some happy hereafter. And I do not try to convince myself that the accident
of his birth and all our births is proof of some magical permanence of his spirit.
The only mystical remnants of my father’s existence are the individual and
shared memories that we have of him. And even those are not absolute. Not only
are our memories shaped by our own perspectives and biases, they are subject to
modification and degradation. Perhaps that is why I hold onto my memory of
my father as if it were an entity in itself, waging its own war against time,
to survive.
My father
was a quiet person who enjoyed his privacy. He was talkative only when he chose
to be - with close family and in select company. As a person who didn't freely
display his thoughts, and especially as someone who didn't impose his opinion
on others, it was not obvious to me that my father had had a deep influence on
people outside my immediate family. Children tend to view their parents' lives
lopsidedly. We tend to minimize all the influences that existed in our parents'
lives before our birth. It's all about us, and the time since we have been
around. When my father died, my grief and that of my immediate family was
understandable. But it was a revelation to me that when the quiet and
unobtrusive nature of my father’s life came to an end, there were others, grown
men and women far removed from my father’s daily-life interactions who would
feel a sense of loss akin to mine. It was a lesson that my father had had a
life well beyond the boundaries of my existence.
My father
rarely preached about what he believed in, or what he wished to emphasize. He
led by way of example. If he wanted his children to be kind, generous or
hospitable, he never said so in words. Instead, we saw how he opened his house
to guests with genuine warmth. He shared his home, our home, for several
years with a friend who came upon hard times. He was a father figure to his
younger cousins. He was the “go-to person” for questions and problems of all
kinds – monetary and otherwise. He was the perfect combination of knowledge and
kindness that ensured, that no matter what your query, you would never leave
empty-handed. And sometimes you would leave with more than you bargained for!
Those who have approached him with questions know that if all you had in mind
was a quick, summary answer, he subjected you to a thorough background on the
topic before delving into the core of your question.
I was
absent for most of my father’s illness and treatment. In the nine months that he
lived after receiving a terminal diagnosis, I only spent one month with him at
a time when he still felt and looked well. I never got to see my father during
his episodes of deterioration, with the exception of the end. I was the
long-distance observer whose contribution towards caring for my father was
restricted to phone-calls. In turn, I had to content myself with frequent
updates from my family as the only means of giving and receiving support. As
the outsider, physically removed from the center of activity, and unable to
control or contribute to daily issues surrounding my father’s illness, I was
occupied with other concerns. While the proximal caregivers hold on to the hope
that the treatment will prolong life, the distal ones must confront additional
(and opposing) possibilities, - not on account of any inherent pessimism, but
because a distance of 10,000 miles guarantees a reaction-time delay of at least
24 hours. So I had to mentally prepare myself for the possibility that I might
never see my father alive again. Or the possibility of having to rush to India
for a funeral and rush back in the middle of the school term, when taking
extended time off from classes would be difficult. I consider myself fortunate
that neither of those scenarios played out. I like to believe that the timing
of my father’s death was somehow cognizant of my limitations and
responsibilities. My father’s health began to take a rapid turn for the worse
the day I posted my grades, and when my teaching commitment for the term had
ended. I left for India two days later, and had the luxury of spending most of
the summer-break with my family. I was spared the ordeal of having to grieve
on my own in the days immediately following my father’s demise.
In his final days, due to a collapsed
lung, my father needed to be on pressurized oxygen. The oxygen mask, which was
tightly strapped around his face left pressure sores. His eyes were closed –
the mask made it difficult to keep his eyes open. Insufficient oxygen and a build-up of carbon
dioxide made him drowsy; he drifted in and out of periods of wakefulness and
sleep. When I arrived at the hospital, he seemed awake and aware. He
acknowledged my presence with a ‘thumbs up’ sign from one hand. Then he
gestured – rotating both his palms. I could not understand what he meant. Sundar, his
protégé, confidant, friend – a relationship that defies being pegged as one
thing – translated for me: “He wants to know how long you’re staying.” “I’m
here for two months,” I answered. My father then responded by sticking two
thumbs up in the air. This was the last “conversation” I had with him.
My father was
educated as an engineer, but he sustained a long-standing interest in a wide
range of subjects from languages to astronomy to electronics to UFOs to
medicine. On the day before he died, the oncologist taking care of him joked
with my brothers by my sleeping father’s bedside. He commended my brothers for
their attention to detail in the care of my father, and referred to my
brothers’ knowledge of medicine as being like that of “medical students…” “But
your father,” said the oncologist, “is like a post-graduate!”
Our brains are supposedly wired to process
some kinds of information better than others (verbal, visual, numerical,
spatial...) If people are considered talented in a certain area of expertise,
it is likely an ordinary merit. Usually, this aptitude comes with a price –
namely, a compensatory lack of proficiency in another area. How many
mathematicians are also artistically or linguistically proficient, and
conversely, how many artists, writers and musicians can manipulate numbers with
ease? Not many. They are the truly talented. My father belongs in that
category.
Some part
of the sadness that I feel doesn’t come from the loss of a father-daughter
relationship. It comes from the sense of loss one feels when the world loses an
extraordinary person. I just happen to be his daughter.
I
sometimes think of my father's life as a series of languages. Tamil, English
and Marathi in his early childhood; Kannada, Hindi and Sanskrit in his later
youth; exposure to Bengali as a young adult; German and French in his twenties;
efforts at learning Italian through books and a brief stay in Italy; self-taught
Spanish in his seventies. He was not a talkative man to those who didn't know
him well, but he never passed up the
chance to initiate a conversation in order to indulge his affinity for languages. Whenever
he met someone who could entertain his enthusiasm, he was ever ready to dig up
phrases or retrieve functional communication in languages he had long lost
exposure to. His conversation partners would commend his remarkable linguistic
skills, but my father viewed his retention of languages as if it were like
riding a bike – once learned, it could never be forgotten, even if you have not
ridden for years. My father always had a reputation for being an adept
language enthusiast. As a child, I took this reputation for granted, as most
children do, without questioning or evaluating it for myself. But it is only as
an adult, stumbling and hesitating through my own (and much smaller range of
languages that I speak or understand) that I got to fully appreciate the ease
with which my father navigated the multiple channels of his linguistic repertoire.
On the
news of his death, a cousin of my father, who, over the years, occasionally
sought his help in matters of language (translation between English and German)
wrote a letter that reflects the awe that I feel for my father’s linguistic
capacity. She wanted me to read her letter (which was addressed to my father)
during one of the last rites performed for him (which I did not get a chance to
do.) So here it is, instead. I hope my translation from the German in which she
wrote it, is accurate.
Grüß Gott
Jayaram,
Where have
you gone without bidding goodbye to us? Was it a call from God that you had to
accept it? I did not have the slightest idea that you were so ill, because you
looked so well the last time we met. We talked a lot about the German language.
I asked you what the expression “Früh übt sich” meant. Whenever I had
questions, I came to you, or just sent you a message. And there was your
answer! What are you? A language-genius! A king of the German language! Or
better yet, an Emperor! I really don’t know what I should call you. You are an
extraordinary person with the most pleasant qualities such as your
ever-readiness to help and your kindness.
I always
remember the translation project that we worked on together. Not only was it
fun working on the project with you, but I also had the opportunity to learn so
much.
Now
Jayaram, tell me, whom should I turn to when I have questions? You will be
missed. Perhaps we will meet again in heaven!
Your
sister,
S
If I had known that
you were so gravely ill, I would have spent more quality time with you.
S
My father
was my first writing teacher. As a child, whenever I missed school, I would
have to write my own letters of absence, or “leave letters” as we called them.
When I was very young, my father would dictate the contents of the letter, and
I would write it in my own hand. Later, as I grew older, and more familiar with
my father’s turn of phrase and style of transforming conversational language
into its formal, epistolary counterpart, I would write the letters on my own, -
to be then modified, approved and signed by my father. If in my own
writing I use ten words where three would suffice, it is a trait I learned from
him. In his personal correspondence, in letters to friends and relatives, and
in his emails, he always erred on the side of clarity. He readily sacrificed
being brief to making sure he was clearly understood. If in person my father
appeared to be a man of few words, in his writing he was the complete opposite.
December 2008
