‘Is there something wrong?’ he quivers.
‘No, Dadoo.’
‘There is something very wrong.’
‘No, Dadoo.’
‘I know there is something wrong,’ he mumbles helplessly. And I curse myself for leading him in this state.
62
My relationship with Dadoo is indeed a very unique one – a daughter, a friend, a partner. I have fought with him, discussed family matters, politics, life partners, philosophy and death, even his suicidal tendencies.
No one can be a better parent (a father) than him. I do not remember one incident where I had rebelled or done something that he didn’t want me to do. Even when he did not want me to do something it was discussed openly and a way out was found. Not once did he say ‘You cannot’ or ‘You should not’, whether it was my marriage; my career; travelling with friends; a thing I wanted to buy; or my food habits. I was never taught to discriminate between castes, status, wealth – there were just three things: humanity, right and wrong and do what you want to do, which probably meant being happy.
He was not interested in what other professor’s sons and daughters were doing. He never compared us to them, he never nagged us. His motto was not to run after careers – an engineer, a doctor, a bureaucrat – it was always how to live life and do what you wanted to do. In the early 1990s I wanted to be a journalist and when I told this to Dadoo he was on top of the world. Vikram wanted to be a chef and Dadoo supported him wholeheartedly. Deepu wanted to be an engineer; and Dadoo encouraged him just as much.
I remember, I was fifteen when I first got to know about ‘caste’. Having studied in Nigeria, the Indian caste system was not part of our syllabus and neither was it ever discussed at home. During the ragging session in the college I was asked, ‘Do you belong to a lower caste?’ I just had no idea what caste was and I smiled and said, ‘May be’ thinking that it must be a good thing to belong to. I can still recall the dazed expression on that senior’s face. He repeated many times: ‘Are you sure?’ Exasperated, in the end, I truthfully said, ‘I do not know.’ He told me to go and ask my father.
And thus I asked Dadoo: ‘Are we of lower caste?’
Dadoo laughed gaily and robustly, ‘Who told you so?’
‘Some guy in the college.’ I murmured, confused thinking probably it is something funny. We both were sitting on the stairs, he asked me the details. I repeated the conversation, he laughed more gaily and then said, ‘Meri beti, hum schedule caste nahin hai [my child, we are not schedule caste]. Tell him that. And also tell him that hamari koi caste nahin hai [we do not have any caste].’
The next day the same senior asked me gleefully: ‘What did your father say?’ I told him. Dazed he exclaimed, ‘Are you Christians?’
I was a little agitated, this I was sure of, I was not: Though it did not make much difference to me – Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs. I had read the Bible and the Quran. It was something like reading maths, English, science, something like staying in India, Nigeria, London.
In Nigeria we had to choose between Christianity or Islam as subject. Dadoo was casual about it and said, ‘It is your choice.’ And I did. For two months I attended Christianity classes and for the next two Quran classes and kept hopping from one to the other though I chose Islam for exam.
Now I shook my head vigorously and said that I am a Hindu, he again said, ‘Go and ask your father which caste you belong to.’ I adamantly said, ‘He has said that I have no caste.’
‘Every Hindu is of a caste,’ the senior said. This bewildered me.
Again in the evening I narrated this discussion, this time Mamma was also around and as Dadoo laughed, Mamma irritatingly said, ‘There is nothing funny about this. Tell her hum Khatri hain [we are Khatris].’
Oh how funny I found this word ‘Khatri’. I had laughed clutching my stomach, falling from the diwan, it was such a weird word. And to the further irritation of Mamma, Dadoo joined me too. It was only later when we had calmed down from this hilarious outburst that he told me that Hindus were of four main castes and we fell on the third number. I was not very happy about this, the next day I sheepishly told the senior, ‘Main Khatri hoon [I am a Khatri].’
I have heard that upbringing of a child is done more by the mother than the father but for us, it was the other way round. I remember so many small titbit advises, understandings that were given to me by my father as compared to my mother: building confidence, giving exposure, opening the mind, unknowingly and unconsciously being taught what is family, what is right, what is wrong, the fear of law, the stark honesty in your deeds, the compassion, the humanity, enjoying the present, travel as a teacher, socialization, open discussions without inhibitions, making your viewpoint known, watching films, reading newspapers and books. The list is endless. So many such small things which make a big picture in your life were all given by him. It is not that my mother did nothing but yes she was always overshadowed by his larger than life personality, by his careless freedom, by his faith in us.
63
Dadoo is unable to take care of his body. It makes me go mad at the injustice of it all. A year back the confusion had started when bathing became a cumbersome process for him, he could not do it on his own. In the beginning Mamma used to keep the towel and his clothes and fill the bucket with water and guide him to the bathroom but slowly, this independence too deteriorated. Now you have to take him to the washroom, take off his clothes, massage the soap on his body, pour water, pat him dry and make him wear his clothes.
During this process it arouses, sorrow and pity for him and a loathing and contempt for myself. I cringe and shrink when I see his naked, frail body. He is a bony figure with dark patches of blood clots and raw wounds caused by his constant itching. Dementia has not only destroyed him mentally but also made him so weak and vulnerable physically. The doctors tell me that oils in the body dry due to this illness and the patient suffers from a constant itch. He will never be at peace.
You have to be calm, you have to be patient, you have to tell this to yourself every time that it is not his control. But it is not easy, you do get irritated, angry and impatient. And later when you have shouted and said something rude you nurse the guilt for a long time and you realize how little you do for your parents. Your selfishness blatantly stares at you though you tell yourself, he can’t help it but neither can you.
I remember, once he had called me up and he wanted to enquire about his files. In the beginning I calmly told him that there was nothing to worry but slowly, I started getting irritated. I had so many other things on my mind. Sir, my teacher, was not well, my father-in-law was not in a good mood, Rohit had to go to Delhi, someone had scared me by discussing about cancer, an illness that I have overcome and forgotten, and then here was Dadoo relentlessly talking about his files. When he called the fourth time I did not pick up the phone. Then he called on the landline, I knew it was his phone but I did not pick up that either. Next he called on Rohit’s phone, Rohit was in the washroom, I was getting angrier. I picked up the phone and before he could say anything I snapped, ‘Dadoo, why don’t you listen, I have told you that there is nothing wrong with your files. I have other work to do. You are free but I am not.’
There was a silence on the other side, then in a pitiable voice he said, ‘Can you not help me?’
I snapped, ‘I have told you that there is nothing wrong with your files,’ and quickly disconnected the phone.
By now I was crying and furious at myself when the phone rang again and this time Rohit picked it up. He patiently told him not to worry and that he will come in the evening and set his files right. I hated myself that day, whenever I was in trouble or needed help Dadoo was always there but now when he needs it I can’t reciprocate with same patience. What kind of daughter I am and what a weak and impatient person. I grieve for him sometimes as if he has died, I have lost him forever but on the other hand I still see his breathing body. Oh, where has my Dadoo disappeared?
64<
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17 February 2012
Today is Dadoo and Mamma’s fifty-second anniversary. We, brothers and sisters, have gathered again in Solan. I share with them that I am about to complete the first draft of my book. They are excited and want to know more about it. But I have my own agenda. I ask them, ‘I want us to be truthful. We have a lot of love for Dadoo but I want us to talk about the negative emotions too. Can we talk about it openly?’
‘It is not easy, but I think we can speak about our disillusionment and our fears at least,’ says Mala didi.
‘Yeah, there is always a different perspective to look at things,’ I say trying to provoke them.
Vikram speaks, ‘When Daddy went to Nigeria, initially I was left in India. I was thrown into a hostel at the age of seven by Daddy. When he went to leave me at the hostel I wept a lot, I pleaded with him not to leave me like that. I did not want to be in the hostel. I think I will never forgive Daddy for that. I am not saying that he did something bad, but I always felt abandoned.’
‘Daddy always says that he was thrown out of the house at the age of four and he has nursed that grudge throughout his life against our grandfather but he never thought like that when it came to me. It is true that I have always been unhappy with Dadoo for this and I have felt jealous of both Deepak and Rewa who lived with Mamma and Daddy.’
‘I did not know that I was left here because I was in second class and there were different schooling systems in the two countries. All I felt was that Daddy had left me in India deliberately and that was the most difficult time for me. Finally I too went to Nigeria after a couple of years, but the time that I spent here in India was the toughest period of my life and I don’t think that I will be able to forgive him for this,’ he adds.
‘Daddy always thought that I was not as intelligent as Deepak. This gave me a complex. I even started to feel that I was a worthless person and least intelligent amongst us all. Though Daddy never said that to me or to anyone of us but I had the feeling that I was unable to match the expectation of my father. I was under tremendous pressure to prove myself all the time.’
Now Mala didi speaks, ‘I too have a grudge against him. I think my life would have been totally different had he taken me with him to Nigeria initially. I was very young, lonely and vulnerable. I got involved with Shekhar when I knew nothing about life and married him in the absence of my parents without their consent and this made Daddy so angry that he broke all relations with me.’
‘Many times I think that my life would have been much better had I not been left here in India. I also feel miserable and angry at the same time when I remember that I was blamed for what happened. For years all our relatives behaved as if I had committed a crime. I was scorned for marrying like that, for choosing a man who was not a good human being and hardly educated. Instead of realizing that it was not my fault and sympathizing with me, Daddy too made me feel guilty. Even he failed to see that circumstances were such, Shekhar was so persistent and I was so naïve.’ Mala didi adds sobbing.
We are quiet, not knowing what to say. She composes herself and speaks again, this time with bitterness, ‘I feel that I was penalized twice. Firstly, I was cut off from the family for so many years. Secondly, my life was destroyed as the man I married proved to be a very wrong choice. No one understood what I went through For years I had no one to talk to, no one to share my problems with.’
‘I have nothing to say,’ Deepak says and then adds looking towards me, ‘Didi, you have asked a wrong question. I think more important question is where we have failed him and not where he failed us.’
I ponder over what Deepak has said, he is right. I feel so much love and affection for Dadoo but I cannot be with him to take care of him full time. I have my own life. Each one of us has a job to do, a family to take care of. But this is never the case with parents when they look after their children. Dadoo and Mamma gave their best time to us, without caring for anything else. But now when they need us we are busy giving everything to our children. We have forgotten our parents. And our children will forget us too. Is this the way the world has always moved. Parents love their children who love their children and so on and on. Is this the curse of civilization that the aged will be left alone? Or is it the only way for life to move forward.
Mamma joins us after making Dadoo go to sleep. I ask her, ‘Tell us about Dadoo’s relation with his students and friends?’
‘Your Dadoo is a different person,’ Mamma says.
‘Oh, how so?’ I am curious.
‘He is a giver and he gives too much importance to the wishes of other persons over immediate family members,’ she murmurs. I ask her to explain.
‘Right after our marriage when we were living as tenants in a house here in Solan, the daughter of the landlord came to learn maths from him. She came home every evening after college. He taught anyone who wanted to learn free of cost. So this girl used to come daily. One day she came without a pen. Your father took out the gold-plated pen that my father had given to him, and gave it to the girl. This was a gold-plated pen, a Parker.’
‘Oh! Didn’t you complain?’ I ask astonished.
‘Didn’t she return it?’ Deepak ask quickly.
‘Yes after a week, when I pestered her,’ Mamma says.
I am intrigued, it was a pen from Burma, a precious gift that his wife treasured. He did not think about the value of that pen for his wife, for the family or even otherwise.
‘Whenever he saw that someone was in need and he could help, he came forward and helped. He lent money to people who never returned it, he gifted things without thinking that these would be required by his wife or children,’ she added.
‘There was a colleague of his in the college, his wife became a good friend of mine. We invited them for dinner, she saw the beautiful sandalwood fans on the walls and said, “How beautiful these are! Where did you get these from?” I told her that those were a marriage present from my father. Actually the fans were our family inheritance, coming down the generations,’ Mamma paused.
I felt a sickly lump in my throat as I understood Mamma’s pain.
‘The next day the fans were gone. Your Dadoo took those to the college and gave to his colleague saying that they were for his wife since she liked them.’
‘Dadoo did not think even twice that they were family inheritance and were invaluable,’ I say bewildered. This was a different Dadoo I am getting to know or did he behave differently with Mamma. Was he trying to show to his wife that he was the master of the house and that he did not care about valuable things that she had been gifted by her father? Was he making a point about him being in control? Was there some kind of complex at work?
Mamma continues, ‘He had a student who was bright but very poor. He worked at a shop before and after college hours to earn some money to pay for his education. So, usually he was late for the morning mathematics class every other day. Your Dadoo asked him why he was late and why could he not start in time. The student said that he did not have a watch and he always started from work place after guessing the time by looking at the sun. Next day your Dadoo gave his own wrist watch to the student.’
‘Why was he doing all this?’ I ask angrily.
‘To create a family around him. He longed for human connection, he wanted people to be around, people who loved him, so he loved more and more people, gifted things to them, called them home, helped them,’ she says.
Mamma then tells us about another of his students who used to come home to study. ‘Once she was late due to heavy rain. Your father took my folding umbrella, which was rare at that time even in India, and gave that to the girl.’
I am stumped; there is definitely something else at work.
‘Why your things?’ I ask and then answer, ‘He didn’t have all these things before marriage – a folding umbrella, decorative fans, a gold-plated pen or a watch. To him they were not important but as they were there he passed these on, unaware of the hurt it caused you.’
65
25 February 2012
Now as I read books on this terrible disease I realize what those helpless eyes of my father conveyed, how he seems to be running after thoughts day in and day out. Ideas and sentences melt like snowflakes. Some years back he was so normal and so sharp but now his drifting mind is out of control, he can’t remember simple things like his job, his age and even me.
Just yesterday he was asking Mamma, ‘Where will we stay in Shimla?’
Mamma said, ‘At Rohit’s place.’
‘Will we find Rewa there?’ he asked innocently.
Mamma said, ‘Of course, she will be there.’
‘How is Rewa related to Rohit?’ he asked gravely.
I can understand now that there is all chaos and dizziness in his mind. It is an immense challenge all day to chase words and thoughts. He is at the edge of both failure and hope and these contrasting emotions make him stressed to a breaking point.
For decades I have seen him grow plants, herbs, vegetables and this hobby of his gave him an opportunity to have a close look at life and death, it provided him with an insight into the life and death of human beings too. Today he said, ‘Plants even while living or dying don’t make a noise they just disappear from this world but humans create too much chaos, they scream and they rant both when they are born and when they die.’
Then he murmured, ‘I wish I were a plant.’
We watch in despair as his present, past and future, all get jumbled up and memories of long ago – of his childhood, of his village, of his unknown friends, of some prank that he played in the school – come out from the depths of his mind.
A couple of days back Dadoo was in one of his lucid states when I had called him on the phone.
A World Within Page 16