WHAT IS A FATHER



My first memories of my father extend to the time when I was three years old.
My father was the Superintendant of the Mental Hospital (now Psychiatric centre) at Jaipur. He had just been diagnosed with hypertension. There were very few medicines like Rauwolfia and Adelphane for hypertension at that time, and the prognosis was considered rather bleak with a great risk of coronary artery disease. My father went into a depression, and once I saw him in tears. I used to love to sing and my father had bought me a HMV gramophone so that I could sing along. One such song was form the film Nastik. I began singing that song
Himmat na haar, Prabhu ko pukar,
Who hi teri naaya lagayega paar
Tanik bhi tilmilana na, zara bhi dil hilana na
Hazaar haathwala hai Bhagwan
Ho naiya wale ho, savdhan
He stopped crying and hugged me
At the age of six, I left him to stay with my maternal uncle to take care of my education. Thereafter, I used to see him only when I came home during the vacations. My heart used to romp when I came, and it used to weep when I left. At the railway station I would just hold his hand, and weep inside. I could positively sense that as he held my held, his heart wept no less at having to part with me. Still worried about his heart condition, I could sense his thoughts, if and when he would see me again, and often I used to sing Doris Day’s beautiful number “Che Sara Sara” to him. He loved it.
Then came 1963. That year there were two Diwalis, an ominous occurring.
He celebrated one in Delhi and then came to Delhi to celebrate one with me. I was 13.
One night in Delhi, he had severe chest pain. He was immediately rushed to the best nursing home. After a while my uncle came to pick me up. I could sense something wrong, and on the way I kept bribing the Lord with increasing sums to ensure that he was better. On reaching his room, I saw him in the bed, serene, eyes closed and lifeless. I was too shocked to cry. It was the 22nd of November, 1963. He was cremated at the Nigambodh ghat, about 10-12 km from our home, and I walked the distance with the procession. That day, two other events had occurred. President John F Kennedy was assassinated in US, and six army generals perished in a plane crash. The funeral procession route was lined by army jawans with reversed rifles, and they saluted as we passed. I felt my father was receiving the honors.
That was not when I decided to become a doctor, to sort of carry on my father’s legacy. It was more because of the respect I had seen my father receive as a physician. His patients worshipped him .He used to take me to the hospital with him, and show me his work. I saw him do what later, as a doctor, I came to realize was frontal lobotomy. I learnt to dispense medicines, and even watched him perform postmortems. Once he took me to the Jail in Hindaun where he was posted. Over the gate to the inner door was a sign “These prisoners are men real men. If you treat them like beasts they will become beasts. If you treat them like men they will become men” I read it once and it got engraved in my memory .My father was so impressed he would ask me to recite it to all and sundry..I remember that quote to this day.
It was his job satisfaction that drove me into medicine. That’s when I started missing him the most. I was using some of his books, with his handwritten notations. I was being taught by teachers who were his students from his days as Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, the first few batches of SMS Medical College, Jaipur.
I missed him when I went to Delhi with one of my friends, Shiv Sharma ‘Tich’ .We met his father in his office, and his father said ‘Tich, your girlfriend is damn beautiful. My heart is coming on to her” and Tich replied “Dad, you stick to your secretary” I marveled at their camaraderie and relationship, and envied him, as well as felt sad for my loss.
I missed him when I graduated and had to make a choice for post graduation. No one to guide or advice. That would have been when he would be my friend, philosopher and guide.
I missed him when I met my girl. I wish I could have taken her to him, for I knew he would have been thrilled. I missed him when I got married to her. Though over 60, I am sure he would have danced with joy. I missed him when my children joined our family. He would have been overboard with ecstasy.
I missed him when it was his birth centenary in 2011, or 2012. I wasn’t sure as I didn’t know his birthday, but I still miss him every Sharad Purnima.
I missed him when it was his 50th death anniversary, on 22nd November 2013. That I knew, and couldn’t forget, and never will. For that is when I miss him the most every year, year after year.

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