I picked up the phone. It was indeed my brother and the
conversation was short, though far from sweet. I told him to wait and quickly
proceeded to the hospital to bring our father home for the last time. After a
brief illness, though a painful one (mentally and physically), father would
come to the home he built with so much love. He always said that he may not
enjoy living in the house for very long. Providential, as it turned out. Just
about three years he got to spend in the asset he built, scrounging around to
pay for each brick. I was still young but remember the hardships we had to go
through in life. There was always a whole lot of month left at the end of the
money and despite that, the house came up, brick by brick. It was built in
three or four stages, work stopping when the money ran out entirely. But in
those last three years of dad’s life, he really got to see the fruits of his love
and labour.
My father and me had a relationship that was always at
loggerheads. He had a whole lot of expectations from me, I managed to pour cold
water in all his wishes. I had always been a rebel, while he was looking for a
conformist. Not that he did not allow us to tread the unknown, far from it. He
told us to chart a path and cross the milestones. I, a man in a hurry, coupled
with the exuberance and follies of youth, wanted to skip a few milestones and
get straight to the destination. He told me, in order to be a General, you need
to be a foot soldier first. I always thought that I was a born General,
charting the course of history.
To be fair, he never ever told us not to follow our dreams,
not to try out new things, not to walk down the road less travelled. He always
told us to plan our moves and take calculated risks. In those teenage years,
with the adrenaline rushing and the veins pumping, risks were there to be taken
and walls to be scaled, without the slightest thought on what awaited at the
other end of the drop and whether one would land on two feet. Much of what I am
today is probably because of the little nuggets of wisdom drilled into my head
by my father. I did not realise it then, but as the hair disappears from my
head, the realisation dawns of the importance of a father who guides you in the
course of history that you are trying to chart out of your life. Failure was
important to him, as it is to me. Without failure there can be no success.
Failure only happens the last time one refuses to get up and walk again.
Born in a one-bullock-cart-village in the interiors of
Mymemsingh (now in Bangladesh), the fourth child of a school teacher, growing
up in a house with almost a hundred members, my father went on to lived a
cherished life, rising up to the second senior most officer in the Indian Army,
the first India Green Beret ( a la Rambo), starting the Commando Wing for the
Indian Army, becoming a jungle warfare and counter insurgency expert, representing
India multiple times in football, being felicitated and awarded by the
President of India with the highest military award granted in peace time, being
part of the Monitoring Committee for selection of the India archery and
shooting teams for the Commonwealth Games, Asian Games and Olympics, he came a
long way. The dusty road from Usthi, Mymensingh to the sprawling home in
Aurangzeb Road, Delhi sure was an interesting journey.
The journey finally ended when cancer got the better of him.
Lung cancer for someone who was as fit as the proverbial fiddle, an
international level athlete and sportsman, yoga almost till the end, no
smoking, no drinking. He lived a full life though and I hope I can live half a
life as eventful and rewarding as him. Today is not special for me since he is
in my mind and heart every day. But given the fact that people want us to go
out of our way to say that we remember our respective fathers, I thought it
opportune to pen a few words in his memory.
I love you. Thank you for breathing life into my heart and
bringing me to this world. Happy Father’s Day.
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