The End of an Innings

“Chalti ka naam gaadi! Jitna din chaltha hai, uthna din chalenaka!” That was my Papa’s response for the last couple of years whenever I or anyone else asked how he was doing. “Chalti ka naam gaadi!” is, of course, a playful reference to the 1958 Hindi movie and can be loosely translated as “That which moves is called a car”. The latter half of the sentence was the core of my Papa’s philosophy: “As long as it runs, keep it running!”

The tradition of our daily phone calls started nineteen years ago. I would call my parents as I settled in for breakfast. Papa restricted himself to the news of the family while Amma spoke leisurely on various topics. When Amma passed on in 2013, Papa filled the void. I used to wonder and secretly dread how it would feel to not hear the customary voice on the other end of the line. I had imagined it would be an abrupt, shocking silence, but that is not the way it panned out. Our calls stopped about nine months ago when my dad’s acute hearing loss put an end to our conversations. And now that voice is stilled.

Papa was an avid cricketer, and the scoreboard today reads that he is out for 93. It has been a remarkable innings. Remarkable, not for the attractive stroke play or the headlines that it garnered. Remarkable for its steadiness and dependability. Remarkable for the partnerships it fostered. Remarkable for holding one end while the other players around him prospered. Remarkable for never grabbing the attention but gently encouraging his teammates to do their best and being the first one to congratulate them for their accomplishments and revel in their success. Remarkable for his ability to absorb pressure when the going got tough.  Remarkable for the grace he displayed throughout.

When I was growing up, Papa spoke sparingly of his childhood in Karkala. Most of his stories centered around his college life in Hubli and the start of his professional career in Bombay. His early childhood was probably turbulent. He and his siblings adored their mother, but she was ill with a congenital heart condition. My grandfather’s business had its struggles and ups and downs. Papa lost his mother when he was twelve, my grandad remarried, and in a matter of speaking, moved on. Papa was eternally grateful that his maternal uncles and their respective spouses took him and his siblings under their wings and gave them a firm foothold in life. Indeed, that was the hallmark of his life, always grateful for the opportunities and support that he received, never complaining about the vicissitudes of life.

He moved to Hubli after completing his high school and studied commerce at the JG College. He captained the college cricket team, opening the bowling and batting. He played volleyball and was the shotput champion. He reminisced very fondly of his time in Hubli. He assisted his maternal uncle in his clinic, serving as his Man Friday. Years later, he would recount surgeries and night calls. It was here that his grandfather taught him the techniques of the grand art of bargaining with vendors and shopkeepers. Alas, it is a skill that my brother and I sorely lack, and many a time Papa gently admonished us for paying the asking price. It was a skill that he practiced adroitly till the very end, sometimes to our consternation.

Papa moved to Bombay in 1955, staying with another uncle for a short period before moving in with his older brother, who had just graduated from medical college. The six years he stayed with his brother cemented a bond that lasted throughout their lives. He looked up to his brother, and his devotion was apparent decades later when my uncle and aunt visited us. My dad would seat him first at the dining table, ensuring he was served first. A memory that still stands out is of once when my uncle had to use the bathroom. Papa hurried ahead, made sure the floor was dry, and then stood outside the door with a towel, waiting patiently till my uncle came out.  He would wax nostalgic about the music they listened to on the gramophone. The 1950s boasted the best of Hindi film music, and those are the songs that Papa enjoyed until the very end.

In cricketing parlance, my dad’s best partnership came when he got married. He was a loving and devoted husband. My Amma and Papa complemented each other well with their sense of humor, shared zest, and no-drama outlook on life. They provided a loving and stable platform for my brother and me. I don’t remember any family strife, raised voices, or arguments. After Papa joined HAL (Hindustan Aeronautics Limited), they moved to Bangalore in the mid-sixties. Papa insisted that Amma visit her parents in Bombay once a year. If my brother and I had to stay back, Papa woke up early, cooked breakfast and lunch for us before heading off to work. He then returned home to cook dinner. And it wasn’t burnt toast or watery rice. Dosas and sambar, fried fish with rice and dal. My mother was a fantastic cook, and Papa could hold his own.

He was invested in us but was never obtrusive. He had the ability to inspire us with his stories. He was never patronizing, and it never felt like life lessons. He was proud of us, and we knew that, but it was a quiet, measured pride that never went overboard. He encouraged us to play sports and participate in extracurricular activities, but there was an evident emphasis on education. He was very self-deprecating about his own academic prowess in school. He preferred the cricket field to the classroom. His Math homework was occasionally completed by the son of the family’s domestic help. I wonder if the young boy went to school himself or was an aspiring student. Papa did what I would find difficult to do today. After his undergraduate studies, he pursued his master’s when my brother was born and a Law degree when I was born. He had served as a compounder for his uncle and his brother, and by the prevailing rules of the 1960s, he had a license to open a pharmacy. Not bad for someone who shirked his Math homework.

We grew up in the socialist 1970s and 1980s, where everything was rationed in India, from groceries to cement. Credit was sparse, and so it was a satisfying moment for Papa when he constructed our house in 1981. It was a struggle, cement had to be bought at black market rates. The watchman who was hired to guard the supplies sold the cement and disappeared. When we moved into our house, the walls were whitewashed, the closets were not finished, and the house lacked a compound wall. We moved from the fairly bustling neighborhood of Kumara Park to a rustic setting. No running water, no sewage, no street lights, and mud roads. The well that we dug ran dry. For six months, until Papa could arrange finances to dig a borewell, my brother and I walked down the street to draw water from a well. We made several trips each day and filled drums, buckets, and assorted containers with water. That experience as a schoolboy has left me with a lasting appreciation for running water.

This house was Papa’s pride and joy. When friends and relatives visited us, Papa would give them a tour of the house proudly. He would start off with the dimensions of the plot, the suitable orientation of the house (not based on Vaasthu or Feng Shui, but practical considerations). As they entered the house, he pointed out that the ceilings were 9 feet tall, and the floor was mosaic. The interior walls were 9 inches thick (as opposed to the standard 4 or 5 inches), and the exterior walls were 13 inches thick. The doors he pointed out proudly were solid teak and not the inferior “honne mathi” variety. He pointed to the ample storage space in the closets. The house had been planned by an architect. “Look at the position of this window,” he would point, “my wife can see who is at the gate from the kitchen.” It’s a different matter that the gate appeared a few years later. I spent just six years in this house before moving to Mysore and then later to the US. But this is the house of my childhood. This is when a house became a home for me. And when I left to study in the US, Papa put the house as collateral for the loan to fund my trip and tuition until I was able to secure an assistantship. He had my back.

He enjoyed his two visits to the US. We traversed the Eastern Seaboard, and Niagara Falls was his standout experience. Amma spoke seven languages, Papa spoke six. They had no problems communicating with my friends here, Indian or otherwise. They were both very social and outgoing, and both had the ability to converse with anyone. Growing up in India, friends would drop by, and not finding me at home, chat with my parents for an hour or more, partake of some snacks, and leave. Even after I left for the US, friends continued to drop by to chat with my parents.

Papa took to the role of a grandfather like a fish to water. My nephews were distinctly lucky to grow up with grandparents at home. He kept them enthralled with his stories, and they were more like friends than grandchildren. A devoted husband, he took great care of my mother, to the extent of putting on and removing her walking shoes and checking her feet for any wounds, a necessary precaution as she was a diabetic.

He took her devastating loss in his stride. At the crematorium, I noticed him standing silently next to her bier. On asking what was going through his mind, he replied: “I’m asking forgiveness if I ever fell short in any way.” I assured him that he had been a wonderful husband. We are not a demonstrative family. Hugs became a thing only after I married, and my wife introduced that gesture of affection and appreciation into our family. I could never thank my dad verbally for everything that he had done for my brother and me, so I did the next best thing: I wrote an appreciation on his 85th birthday. He read it quietly and smiled. The appreciation I wrote about my mother elicited a joyous reaction. For a period of time, a printout was handed to guests who visited our house. I wonder if it echoed the appreciation that he felt but never expressed.

Around 2015, I spent time with him on the phone, recording an oral history of his life from his childhood until his move to Bangalore. Those recordings that amount to probably two hours are a treasure trove of memories. His memory of relationships was akin to that of a graph database. I put that memory to use, drawing up a family tree. I’m glad I did. With his passing, we’ve lost a link to that generation. Papa also preserved all the letters that I had written to him before we switched to daily phone calls. He gave me the collection on one of my trips. These record vignettes of my life. My initial impressions of the US, my apprehensions regarding my job search, and the relief that followed when I found one. Descriptions of places my wife and I visited. My daughter’s pranks. I will read them in years to come and relive those memories.

His years of good health matched his years of life. Scientists and doctors study Blue Zones to determine the longevity of those populations. I see those characteristics in Papa. An even temperament. A disciplined and structured life, not marked by any excesses. A varied and predominantly vegetarian diet. Physical activity – he did his own laundry and hung his clothes up to dry on an overhead line with a pole, until a few months ago. Religious but not overly so. He was never a reader of literature but read magazines, newspapers, and followed the news on TV. He was an extrovert, fostering and maintaining relationships. He made it a point to attend and assist at weddings and funerals, often traveling out of station if required. He remembered birthdays and had us buy birthday cards that he mailed out.  He took good care of himself and was immaculately groomed until his final days. He had a wonderful sense of humor. He helped others when he could, not making a show or claiming credit. And he was grateful for all the opportunities that he got in life and the people who made them possible.  My nephew, who is a doctor, told me once to never dream of inheriting Papa’s longevity gene.  He is an outlier, he said.

When I met him last month, his physical decline caught me by surprise. It was sudden and, in comparison, significant. We celebrated his birthday with lunch at a Chinese restaurant. His sense of humor had not deserted him. The service was a tad tardy. “I think they have gone to fetch the chicken from the market,” he mused. And as time passed by, he remarked: “I suspect they are still chasing the chicken.” On each trip, as I hugged him and bid goodbye, a part of me would wonder if this would be the last hug. I am fortunate that I got to experience many such hugs. And I am fortunate and grateful that my brother and sister-in-law were there for him and took wonderful care of him. We move abroad to pursue our ambitions when we are young. Our parents’ mortality does not figure in our dreams. I could rest content that my Papa was in great hands and company.

They say we all die twice. The first time is when we simply cease to be. The second, when we are forgotten. By this yardstick, Papa will have a long life. He touched so many people in his own gentle way that he will be remembered for a long time to come. “Chalti ka naam Gaadi! Jitna din chaltha hai, uthna din chalenaka!”  I will never hear that refrain again. “Lekin, yaadon ki kaaravaan hamare zehan mein hamesha chalti rahegi”. However, the caravan of memories will keep traversing our minds forever.

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The featured picture of my Papa was taken two days shy of his 90th birthday