Weird thing this death business, a spectacle of cosmic jests
and mortal waltzes. Wisdom (sic!) tells me that all life's footfalls must one
day halt, save for the resilient cockroach.
For years, I fancied myself a maestro of farewells, tutored
in the art by none other than Dad himself, a seasoned veteran in his tangoes
with the Grim Reaper since 1997. The four times he came close to exit, each a
jest played upon mortality's stage was a standing joke. So, when I embarked on
my journey to Mangalore on February 4th, hearing that he’s at that fateful door
again, I fancied myself 'prepared,' a guise of fortitude donned in anticipation
of the inevitable.
Entering the ICU on that Sunday morning, I saw, not the
frail specter of impending departure, but the vibrant visage of the father I
knew, brimming with life's spark, counting the hours to see me. His whimsy demanded
the forbidden indulgence of chicken biryani within the sterile confines of the
intensive care unit. We reveled in the joy of bending the rules, a gleeful
rebellion against the solemn dictates of circumstance.
In the days that followed, as Dad danced on the precipice of
eternity, our discourse turned to matters of mortality. He, the sage puppeteer,
orchestrating his final act with mischief in his eyes, and I, the eager
acolyte, entranced by his whimsical defiance of fate. Yet, beneath the laughter
lay a solemn truth, whispered in the hush of bedside conversations—his
weariness, his longing for release.
It took me 2 days to finally listen, really listen to Daddy.
He was tired, mentally, and physically. He wanted to die. He wanted us to
understand and accept.
His desire was to go home, his final pilgrimage from the
sanctuary of familiar walls. In the ensuing four days, amidst tender embraces,
feeding and cleansing his frail body, I was weaving threads of acceptance and
grace into the fabric of our farewells.
At 12:15 pm on Thursday 15 February, after he drank his favorite
pomegranate juice, Dad said, 'Finished' and I said, ‘Yeah the juice is done’
and he gently shook his head until I understood that he was referring to his
journey on earth.
I looked into his eyes and said, 'Yes Daddy, it is. Go in
peace'. He tried to mouth something I didn't get, and I kept asking him to
repeat it until I realized that he was saying Jesus.
I asked him, 'Is your Jesus calling you?' Daddy nodded yes.
I said, 'Then you should go'. He gently closed his eyes, and it looked like he
was in a deep slumber.
Now back to this death business, methinks that had I gone to
see my Dad in a casket, I would have the burden of the if-only’ s, the would
haves, could haves, should haves.
Instead, I'm effused with peace and a sense of
accomplishment. I spent ten priceless days with my father, flouting every rule
of what he could and couldn't eat and drink. Fun conversations, deep debates
when he would gently reprimand me and I would ask him, 'How can I be any
different, after all whose daughter am I?' to him fragile as he was, proudly
pointing to himself; the laughter, tears, cuddles and above all love in its
purest form.
I know it was inevitable, I knew it was the way things are
meant to be, but I didn't see this one coming.
This hollow feeling that a fundamental need is unsatisfied
and will never be fulfilled.
This feeling of death.
Of the living.
Mine.
His heart stopped at 5:15 pm and I switched off his oxygen
concentrator and in that sacred silence, as his spirit took flight, I bade
adieu to not only a father but to the child within, cradled in the warmth of
his unconditional love.
My father thought I was brave, strong, capable and
beautiful. The child that thrived in the complete faith he had in me, died with
him.
I celebrate my father's life and mourn the death of the
daughter I was.
