When I set my eyes on my father’s body, the first thing I noticed was the smile he still had on. For all posterity. I had never seen someone close to me die before this. There is this period when your emotional apparatus goes on a search to seek out the appropriate body language. The proper reaction. The areas governing grief in my brain were yet to be contacted and this gave me time to respond to my daddy’s smile. I smiled back. Almost chuckled did I.
My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.
The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.
For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
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