How do you begin to write about losing a parent? I sit with a myriad of thoughts that flow in and out from different periods of my life with him. My father, a man I grew up with, was a man who was quintessentially my role model, and I looked up to him. He had been sick for the last couple of years, but nothing prepares you for that moment when you realise he is no more and you will never see him again.
My most vivid childhood memory is walking alongside him, holding his long fingers, a habit that continued well into my adulthood. It was very natural just to reach out and hold his hand while walking beside him. Coincidentally my last memory of him is sitting beside him on his couch and holding his hand. I remember thinking how frail his fingers felt in my hands.
When I think back about my life, my personality and the philosophy of life I hold dear, I see how much of it has been influenced by him. Some core characteristics of his have rubbed off on me and have shaped who I am today. He believed in being honest always and would say nothing could be more important than being true in every moment. Today I embody that thought by being in the moment and living it to the fullest. Another one of his qualities that I have appreciated is his need to be punctual, respecting his own time and others’. A very practical man with a clean heart that carried no burdens is an apt description of him. He always had a smile on his face and was in general a happy person always. He has touched so many lives over the years and I have watched how much people have loved and respected him.
My memories of him are a kaleidoscope of random moments captured over time, the carrom games every evening, the walks to the library, the Sunday trip to the meat market, the omelettes at Itarsi junction, eating puffs at the bakery, the ice creams at the market, cooking paper dosas, washing, oiling and braiding my hair, helping me with homework or buying me Gold Spots at the club, running behind him as I struggled to keep pace with his long strides. A physically tall and strong man, his personality and presence were larger than life, and I always felt safe and secure in his presence.
In his last few months, as he struggled with his health, I could see how much he pushed himself to spend time with me, watching discovery channel, discussing news or appreciating my cooking. Early onset of Parkinson’s made it very difficult for him to hold a knife, and yet at times, he would attempt, with shaking fingers to cut fruit for me, in keeping with the custom of enjoying various fruits together.
Today, I am thankful I got to spend a few months with him and enjoyed taking care of him in whatever way I could. His face would light up every morning when I walked into his room to check on him. It was my turn now to cut fruits for him, make dosas the way he liked them (soft on the inside and crispy on the outside), roast peanuts or cook country-style chicken. As I put flowers by his framed picture, I realise the finality in that simple act, knowing that my dad is captured in that small frame and will never again hold my hand again. A 50-year presence has come to an end, yes, his presence will sometimes be felt and sometimes be missed, but the thought of walking into the house and not seeing him on his favourite recliner wrenches the heart. That empty chair leaves an emptiness that will never be filled.
I will miss him dearly.
Imprints of time 
May his Soul Rest in Peace.
May his Soul Rest in Peace.