A Daughter Reflects on Her Father’s Legacy

Dr Surabhi tells us about Pamilla, who revisits her childhood home while thinking back on her late father, cherished moments and the void left behind, exclusively for Different Truths.

The afternoon sun drew the warmest tones out of it all and the air felt rich with it, almost the colour of heavy golden wine.

Pamilla was welcomed by her old housekeeper, Gauri, and her husband, Chela Ram, with a glass of salted nimboo pani, as they ushered her hurriedly into the empty drawing room. She had brought just three pairs of shirts, this time with her Toiletries, neatly packed in a small cabin bag along with three large-sized suitcases which were almost empty.

Chela Ram chuckled, “Didi the luggage is very light this time.”

Gauri, her two daughters and a son were very happy to sit beside her and wait for their turn to interact with Pamilla di, whose visit was long due after their Babuji’s (Pamila’s dad’s) demise two years back. The girls were very happy to have Chocolates and happier that Didi called each of them by their names— Riddhi the eldest was about to be married and Siddhi the youngest was in class eight. Rohan, their brother was good at football and Gauri wanted to admit him to seek admission to Sainik School, Godha Khal.

After a quick shower, Pamilla had a lip-smacking lunch of Arhar dal, rice, mint chutney, and cucumber raita. The kitchen, utensils, the dining area with its oval dining table, the cutlery, the table mats, pickles, and salad from homegrown onions and tomatoes— all had the fragrance of her mother’s soft hands and gentle ways. Pamilla could not imagine her kitchen without her mom’s presence.

A Mom who had nurtured Pamilla, her three sisters, and a brother so well, with her great moral values. She had no regrets about being a homemaker.

After lunch, Pamilla rested in her mom’s room. The white bedsheet with pink roses, the pink pillowcase and the mulmul dohar with peonies arranged beautifully in the crystal vase were memories of dear Mom, who had to leave the home unwillingly, to stay with Pamilla’s brother because of old age. Pamilla was surprised that the wall clock was still working, and the small Caravan could still entertain her with Ghazals and Amin Sahani’s Binaca Geet Mala. The Dutch set, neatly crocheted by Pamilla in class eight still decorated the age-old dressing table. Mummy was very much present in the smallest details of this room. Pamilla smiled and slept till late evening.

Waking up with a cup of cold coffee and salted cashew nuts — with Gauri’s pleasant ways, made Pamilla forget her people back home. How she wished that she could leave everything, bring Mummy along and stay in this house for a long, long time. Every corner echoed the happy times Pamilla had spent with her sisters, bua-jis, dadi-ji, Baba and so many friends, who stayed as a family at the campus. By evening she walked out of the house to meet Rajeev bhaiya, Raj bhaiya, and Pant aunty. They were the few old residents of the once sprawling campus that housed very friendly families just opposite the university. The Campus was once owned by Sir Belvedere, who also had a printing press.

Soon it was dinnertime and Pamilla realised that she should now get back to her real mission. Unconsciously she was putting this aside as her heart was yet to heal with Dad’s memories. She asked Gauri to open Dad’s room. Gauri was very uneasy and called Chela Ram to do the job. I could sense the anxiety and sadness in Gauri’s eyes.

As the room opened —- a scent of memories, hazy, smooth, bright, and dark effused to heal my troubled soul. There was a cinnamon fragrance all over the room, which was huge and stacked with books. The large bed by the window side, the study table, the lamp, the cupboard, the book racks —- all squeaked with memories of her dad’s strong persona.

Seeing Neeb Karori Baba’s photo neatly placed in the far corner of the study table —- made Pamilla regret many things. She was so busy with her work and family that not even once could she accompany her dad to Kainchi Dham, during the Puja days. But Dad never regretted it. Both her parents. They wanted Pamilla to do her duty first. They did not want to disturb anyone.

Dad’s spectacles, Titan wristwatch with brown strap, a magnifying lens, a pen holder that had four pens— two black gel pens, one red pen and a fountain pen with blue ink pot. The ink had dried. The flowers and incense sticks for Baba’s offerings had dried too. The deepam with its half-burnt wick and thick Til oil had lost its sheen. A small hand towel close to a cabinet, which had medical prescriptions and medicines was placed at the other end of the table. Pamilla could not gather the courage to displace anything. The Rudraksha mala placed next to Baba’s frame had the feel of her dad’s long artistic fingers.

Pamilla opened the wooden cupboard that roared to more and more memories. Her Dad’s pants and shirts, his woollen shawl, and a few sweaters along with his kurta, pajamas and coats were neatly folded on the topmost shelf. His ties, leather belt and white collars hung from the steel hooks, mounted on the cupboard door.

The second shelf had a huge collection of Readers’ Digest books. There were a few religious books too. There was a third shelf, stacked with books — historical fiction, classics, adventure stories, crime, fairytales, fables, and folk tales. There were books on fantasy, horror, humour, and satire. There were books on science fiction, war, women’s fiction, romance, mystery, poetry, plays and literary fiction. There were autobiographies, memoirs, essays, non-fiction, novels, and self-help books. There was a pile of newspapers —- Hindu, Tribune, Hindustan Times, and Economic Times. Pamilla’s Dad was an avid reader.

Pamilla chanced to open the bedhead closet and was happy to find two of her dad’s most precious possessions. His diaries. Her heart pounded as she flipped the pages of one of them. There were contact addresses and phone numbers of relatives, friends, workers, clients, and his children. The handwriting was neat and italicised. Pamilla remembered Mr Fraser, a tall middle-aged Anglo teacher, who was employed by their Dad for all her sisters and brother to teach them to write neatly. She also remembered her Sanskrit teacher who was given a room in their compound to teach them to write neat Hindi letters and educate them all in Sanskrit.

Pamilla missed her sisters. They had all flown off from this loving nest to far-off lands. Her brother too had left this place to stay with his son in the UK. She realised that she had just four days to enjoy these empty spaces full of nostalgia. She remembered her dad’s last letter that read:

“Beti, I have always treasured books, more than anything else. When you come home next time, do pack some books. I am sure Aparajita and Anupriya will treasure them. Your mother is doing well. The physiotherapist is a gentle person and very skilled.

“Tell Aparajita to consider medical colleges in the South also for PG admissions. Jawaharlal Institute of Postgraduate Medical Education and Research (JIPMER) Puducherry, and St John’s Bangalore are also good. Hope Anupriya has returned from her Bhopal excursion and is settled with her studies. When is her PG this year? Keep going for morning walks and taking some breaks from your work.

“Shubhashish,

“Yours,

                        Papa.”

Pamilla lay still on the dark brown wooden armchair. Looking up at the silver-grey ceiling fan that had four wings and down at the Favre Leuba alarm clock, the empty steel jug, a glass, covered by a ceramic bowl.

She recalled the days when the household was full of laughter. And everything seemed so easy. Everyone had so much to do and so little to worry about.

Her Dad was an early riser. He would wake them all, one by one with a glass of milk or tea, according to their liking. The alarm clock was used often by her youngest Bua-ji and Pamilla’s younger sister Neelanjana, who slept at odd hours.

The night was slipping by. Pamilla scrolled eagerly at the other diary too. Her heavy eyelids were moist. Tears rolled down. This was the diary for medical records. Her Dad had an appointment with his physician on 6-11-2019.

The candle flame burned hazily. Memories of Dad melted like candle wax. She missed her dad. She missed his suggestions. She missed his smile. She missed his touch. She missed his commitment towards his family and society at large. She missed his vast, diverse, knowledge. How he protected all her sisters from bad people.

Her Dad had suffered from a massive stroke on October 28, 2019. Pamilla realised that he had an appointment with God as his last journey to the Ganga took place on November 6, 2019.

Paintings by the author