Seventeen Years Ago

I wouldn't have written this piece if not for the 'Vakkom' Group in FB.

How do I remember my father who passed away on this day 17 years ago? A decade-and-a-half is a pretty long time to get out of any form of mourning.

True, I don't remember him every day. But it is also true that there is not a day that he doesn't beat within my bosom.

The evening when we buried him in a nondescript corner of the cemetery behind Kayalpuram mosque is still as fresh and vivid as yesterday afternoon. The indifferent cashew leaves, the thud-thuds of the gravedigger's pickaxe and hoe, the mound of wet dark brown soil by the grave, the prayers in the mosque, the way I mimicked others beside me for not being found an ill-fit, the silence and the warmth of sighs.

In fact, Umma, Bobby and I had not wanted him to struggle any more. Such was the pain he had been going through. Such was the agony.

I still remember the afternoon at the Leskshmi Vihar Hospital when he breathed his last. How we all gathered around him, eagerly waiting for the exhale each time he dragged breath into his cancer-eaten lungs. We got used to the slow pace of his breathing--in and out, in and out, in and out.

And, in...we all waited, and there was nothing! He died. Shajikka (Dr Shaji) checked his pulse and pronounced him dead.


Even after 17 fierce summers and squidgy winters, I still miss him. He hadn't left much for me in terms of material, but what had impressed in my heart as a growing boy, has shaped my set of believes and convictions.

Though he was not an intellectual giant or had not done any significant writing to be mentioned in the “intellect parlours” unlike his brothers, he was my early inspiration.

For me, he was a romantic who played the flute by the window on a rainy day or listened to Talat Mahmoud on a moon-lit night or with a few quick strokes did a sketch of Indira Gandhi or Bertrand Russell. He adored Mrs Gandhi for her strength of character and Russell for his philosophy of knowledge and love being the inspirations of life. He introduced to me the world of literature and writing and to Bobby that of ghazals. Both of us have stuck to them till today.

He was not an intellectual rabbit either. A Socialist in his younger years, he plunged himself into the world of literature. His collection of books included titles from Chaucer to Chaplin and Russell to Ruskin Bond.

Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley with a smattering of Russell and Koestler, that’s what Bobby and I heard during our prolonged dinner. And, when Abda mama was around the dinner conversation would prolong further and end up with a brief recollection of family history after a Gandhi-Jinnah rundown.

His innate inability to 'make money' unlike others in the Gulf was often looked down upon with smirks and disdain. He was a plain man who put his family and convictions above all. He could be wrong, but that was he.

He was very much fallible, and that was the best part I loved in him. I may not agree with all that he had done, but then I adored him with all his shortcomings. He should have allowed Umma to work. Well, that's another story.

One of the best things about him as a father was that neither Bobby nor I had to lie to cover up our mistakes. We could boldly say whatever we did or felt like. We used to criticise him, fiercely. He encouraged us to express our thoughts.

His passion for Scrabble had made the game our 'family game'. Hardly a night would pass without we all four playing a round of Scrabble, and he was ruthless in beating us!

Zaheer was special to him, and he often missed him. Sometimes when the pain was intolerable, he would want to meet Zaheer.

Another person who was close to him was Nabeed. In the later days of life, Nabeed was his shadow. He used to blast him, apparently for no reason.

I have many times in the last 17 years wished if he were alive, especially when I was going through some of the worst phases in my life, and drawing flak from everyone. I knew if there was one person who could understand my compulsions and convictions it would be him. He may not agree with me,but I am sure, he'd respect my decision, still love me for who I am.

Memories are the cruellest friends--we need them, but they leave us hurt and sad. I miss him, badly, and Keziah, my daughter, often says that she wants to meet 'Iqbaluppuppa'. I'm sure he'd have been a wonderful grandfather to Keziah, Sean, Ansil and Saahil! Such was his heart!