Father and Son

It is a privilege to have parents. We know it but comprehend it in its entirety, a bit too late. Of all the relationships, a father and son relationship is never smooth and easy. Maybe for a few lucky ones, it is. But for most it is linear till adolescence and then it becomes a roller coaster ride till middle age. Sometimes extremely warm, sometimes lukewarm and sometimes freezing cold. Two personalities, poles apart in their nature and opinions, ego popping up at unexpected moments and the happenings around in the close family and neighbourhood all add sparks at random moments that may escalate too fast.

“Yet something invisible like gravity keeps them bound, preventing them from moving apart.”

There are many wholesome moments shared, there are unexpected joys, and there are also loaded silences. Yet something invisible like gravity keeps them bound, preventing them from moving apart. Sometimes they may be pulled apart for years or decades. Though they do think about each other all the time in those separation days. To come closer again at the drop of a hat at any opportunity that may arise.

They may stay under one roof or not. But the dynamics do not change. The dictator in childhood and adolescence mellows down as the son reaches middle age. Grandkids bring out something tender in the father, the son had not known existed.

“At that moment the fog of misunderstanding, senseless debates, bitter showdowns and words that had pierced like arrows suddenly melts away.”

Days pass and years too and the time comes to say goodbye. And at that moment the fog of misunderstanding, senseless debates, bitter showdowns, words that had pierced like arrows suddenly melts away and what remains is the image of the father waiting at the school gate, a father taking the son to a movie, a father taking the son for a picnic at Saras Baug and Peshwa Park and the rides enjoyed in the फुलराणी.

And then there are occasions that are just too many to enumerate, like the evenings while returning from office the bhel packets father used to get, the almost ceremonial cutting and enjoying of a watermelon, the tiny mangoes which he used to wash and give to the son, the beaming pride on father’s face on the son’s achievements. And a collage of images just moves across the teary eyes.

“The dam of control held till then breaks down and grief overrides everything.”

One takes a last look at the withered, stilled face framed by floral garlands around his neck and something silently snaps inside. The dam of control held till then breaks down and grief overrides everything on the son’s face and he turns away towards the sky to hide it and also to compose himself, yet tears are tears, uncontrollable. They swell in the eyes, to flow in a stream.

Yet the son has to control himself. There are rites to be performed. It is time to bid adieu to the shadow of a life well lived.

An avalanche of memories is going to come cascading down once the rites are over. And they are going to arrive unannounced many a time, till the end of the son’s life.