My Father

 I am very bad with dates. I cannot remember any important date or year. For example, I routinely forget the year of our marriage. I even used to forget the precise date in February but my wife taught me an easy mnemonic - spread your palm out, it's five. So 5th February. I can never remember in which year Mampu was born. Fourth July I remember because it's the American day of independence and Mitch was in India that year and he earnestly believed the child would be born on 4th July. 

So it is natural that I would not remember the date on which my father died. I clearly remember the situation. It was a Sunday. We were upstairs. Our mother called out for us. And we went downstairs to find he had breathed his last. He was suffering badly and we were happy for him. 

These last so many years that he is gone (I cannot remember which year - possibly 2007) I remember him almost every day. Something or the other reminds me about him on a daily basis. But the dates are totally unimportant to me. What I am trying to say is that I have not forgotten my father at all but the precise dates are obscure in my mind.

There is one thing that keeps reminding me about his death anniversary is that my Mama (my mother's brother) had suddenly died a week or so before him. The nephews and cousins discuss it in our family forum every year and I remember that my father's anniversary is coming. I ask Monisha about the date and she would say - "25th November" and I would try to remember it but quickly forget.

This year early morning on 25th a queer thing happened. I saw in my dream as if my father was asking me for some water. He was tired and asked me for a glass of water. This was quite routine when he was alive. One of the enduring memories of my father is how he would look when he came home. Tired. Sweating profusely. His punjabi drenched in sweat. And one of the first things he would say is - get me a glass of water.

After seeing the dream I woke up with a start and asked Monisha if that was his death anniversary. She said yes. I felt very guilty. I was intrigued the whole day about this incident. The dream. In the evening I placed a glass of water in front of his photograph in Mampu's room. Next morning we poured it in one of the plant tubs. 

Actually we have this Hindu ritual of ceremonially offering water to our ancestors on the day of Mahalaya. Those whose fathers are no more, go to the Ganges (or any other large water body) and offer a very elaborate prayer standing in waist deep water. My father used to do this every year till his sixties. After that he would do it at home. After his death I did it for a few years in the Katwa Ganga with a very senior Priest who explained every mantra to me. He was a very educated Sanskrit scholar and a pandit in the true sense of the word. Unfortunately, after a few years he developed cancer and died soon. I had planned to record the whole thing from him so that I could do it on my own but that did not happen. 

Mezda and I tried to go and do it in the Calcutta Ganga. We hired a young priest near the Ghat but soon realised he just knew nothing. In fact between Mezda and I we know some of the mantras better than him. So we threw him out and I never went back again. 

But at the back of the mind I feel guilty about it. Not that I am a very religious ritual oriented person. I do it only in honour of my father because he himself used to do it. I try to do it in his memory. I do not really think that our forefathers are languishing in hell without water from us. 

But this incident rattled me. I have tried to reason that this was my guilt consciousness that came to the fore. But I swear I was not conscious about his exact date of departure. I was also not conscious that that particular day was 25th November. It is possible that the date was there in my super subconscious state. But I am not aware of it. 

I have the Purohit Darpan at home. This year I intend to jot down the entire process and do the ritual myself. Let me see. Purahit Darpan is a book that details all the Hindu rituals. It's a thick book. It has been written by different people over the last few hundred years. I hope I have one of the authentic ones.