In Bequest and Memoriam
Glancing at the clock, he wonders, “at this time? The night is long dead back in India by now!”
Alarmed, he replies, “Thank you Anna” and connects to the line, his lone connection back to his roots.
“Adi, Mummy here.”
“Hi Mummy. It must be really late back at home. What happened?”
“It’s your father. He’s no more among us.”
And with that, a statement put forth as an offhanded, matter of fact remark, Aditya is stunned to silence. His mother, gives him a couple of minutes to recompose.
“I’m so sorry Mummy. I wish you didn’t have to go through his passing alone. I’ll catch the first flight out of here, but don’t wait up for me. Knowing father, he wouldn’t want his last rites delayed because of me. I’m sure Mayank uncle would oblige if you asked him to take my place.”
His mother breathes out a heavy sigh, burdened with the weight of decades of discord in the two men in her life.
“Just come home son.”
***
As his cab zooms along the freeway to the airport, it passes by one of the galleries which hosts his latest creation “Aglow”. Suddenly he finds himself back in the halls of his father’s mansion, where seated on a high chair, clutching angrily at the morning newspaper, he spouts disappointment at him.
“You were born a Lord. Yet you gave that up to pursue Science. I let you run along, hoping that one day when your delusions lift, you’ll return to sit by my side and oversee our property and business. You disappointed me there; nevertheless, I could gulp down you becoming a scholar and a professor. But now you want to leave all that behind to become some gypsy who entertains people with mirrors? Lord Suraj’s son, a lowly artist! I will strip you of your name, of your identity before I see that happen.”
When you’ve borne the brunt of a thousand such assaults on your heart, and back, day-in day-out, the whip no longer hurts; instead, the futility of it amuses you.
And so the son looked up at the father with a bemused smile and said,” It’s sad that you can threaten me only with stripping me of my name and title. I gave up those long ago. You sowed the seed, but I am a different tree.”
Those were the last words he ever exchanged with his father. Lord Suraj Singh, a man so inflexible in his ways, who raced the sun every morning of his life arriving first at the battleground of this world, a man so proud and ignorant of his heritage, a man so unimaginative in his legacy – gone. “Good riddance”, he smirks, unabashedly.
***
As soon as he arrived, his mother rushed him to get bathed and changed so that last rites could be performed. He performed all the rituals in a marked reluctance which did not escape the massive crowd assembled. Not that the father-son estrangement was any secret, but people expected better of him.
His mother, when the day had settled and the people had left, asked him in a quivering, pleading voice, “Will you try to forgive him?”
“Forgive him or not, he wouldn’t care either ways! He was a man who remained unapologetic to the change in times and society. In life, he never cared about what anyone thought of him, including his only son. I don’t see that changing in his death.”
Brushing away her tears, his mother simply said in response, “Your bed is made in the study upstairs. Go and get some rest.”
Aditya protested, “Why not with you Mummy? Father never considered me worthy to enter his study. All I could achieve in all my years here was a sneak-peek through the keyhole. I still remember the thrashing after that.”
His mother assuaging him with a sad smile and a cryptic reply, said,” Go. This is the only way the storm which has forever raged inside you will rest. And this is the only way, he will find rest.”
As he entered the study, he was immediately awed by the rich history of his family and the amount of care that had gone in preserving portraits and invaluable heirlooms. As he marvelled at the stately faces of his ancestors, right down to his father, he saw something jarringly out of place. Among precious oils on canvas, was his digitally acquired photograph from an interview at Sotheby’s, enlarged and framed, larger than life. Among the rifles, swords and jewels of the bygone era, were his highly acclaimed research papers, patents and photographs of his creations. Between the thick, dusty, cracked leather-bound volumes of family history, biographies and assets, sat his doctoral thesis. Among vinyls dating back a century, was his iPod, which to his surprise did not show signs of neglect. As he held it in his hands and sat down on his bed, he found a letter on top of the pillow. He immediately recognized the forceful scrawling of his father, from the ‘Aditya’ on the envelope. It was a small letter which said only this –
“Why did you never tell me that you like Ghazals?”
Alarmed, he replies, “Thank you Anna” and connects to the line, his lone connection back to his roots.
“Adi, Mummy here.”
“Hi Mummy. It must be really late back at home. What happened?”
“It’s your father. He’s no more among us.”
And with that, a statement put forth as an offhanded, matter of fact remark, Aditya is stunned to silence. His mother, gives him a couple of minutes to recompose.
“I’m so sorry Mummy. I wish you didn’t have to go through his passing alone. I’ll catch the first flight out of here, but don’t wait up for me. Knowing father, he wouldn’t want his last rites delayed because of me. I’m sure Mayank uncle would oblige if you asked him to take my place.”
His mother breathes out a heavy sigh, burdened with the weight of decades of discord in the two men in her life.
“Just come home son.”
***
As his cab zooms along the freeway to the airport, it passes by one of the galleries which hosts his latest creation “Aglow”. Suddenly he finds himself back in the halls of his father’s mansion, where seated on a high chair, clutching angrily at the morning newspaper, he spouts disappointment at him.
“You were born a Lord. Yet you gave that up to pursue Science. I let you run along, hoping that one day when your delusions lift, you’ll return to sit by my side and oversee our property and business. You disappointed me there; nevertheless, I could gulp down you becoming a scholar and a professor. But now you want to leave all that behind to become some gypsy who entertains people with mirrors? Lord Suraj’s son, a lowly artist! I will strip you of your name, of your identity before I see that happen.”
When you’ve borne the brunt of a thousand such assaults on your heart, and back, day-in day-out, the whip no longer hurts; instead, the futility of it amuses you.
And so the son looked up at the father with a bemused smile and said,” It’s sad that you can threaten me only with stripping me of my name and title. I gave up those long ago. You sowed the seed, but I am a different tree.”
Those were the last words he ever exchanged with his father. Lord Suraj Singh, a man so inflexible in his ways, who raced the sun every morning of his life arriving first at the battleground of this world, a man so proud and ignorant of his heritage, a man so unimaginative in his legacy – gone. “Good riddance”, he smirks, unabashedly.
***
As soon as he arrived, his mother rushed him to get bathed and changed so that last rites could be performed. He performed all the rituals in a marked reluctance which did not escape the massive crowd assembled. Not that the father-son estrangement was any secret, but people expected better of him.
His mother, when the day had settled and the people had left, asked him in a quivering, pleading voice, “Will you try to forgive him?”
“Forgive him or not, he wouldn’t care either ways! He was a man who remained unapologetic to the change in times and society. In life, he never cared about what anyone thought of him, including his only son. I don’t see that changing in his death.”
Brushing away her tears, his mother simply said in response, “Your bed is made in the study upstairs. Go and get some rest.”
Aditya protested, “Why not with you Mummy? Father never considered me worthy to enter his study. All I could achieve in all my years here was a sneak-peek through the keyhole. I still remember the thrashing after that.”
His mother assuaging him with a sad smile and a cryptic reply, said,” Go. This is the only way the storm which has forever raged inside you will rest. And this is the only way, he will find rest.”
As he entered the study, he was immediately awed by the rich history of his family and the amount of care that had gone in preserving portraits and invaluable heirlooms. As he marvelled at the stately faces of his ancestors, right down to his father, he saw something jarringly out of place. Among precious oils on canvas, was his digitally acquired photograph from an interview at Sotheby’s, enlarged and framed, larger than life. Among the rifles, swords and jewels of the bygone era, were his highly acclaimed research papers, patents and photographs of his creations. Between the thick, dusty, cracked leather-bound volumes of family history, biographies and assets, sat his doctoral thesis. Among vinyls dating back a century, was his iPod, which to his surprise did not show signs of neglect. As he held it in his hands and sat down on his bed, he found a letter on top of the pillow. He immediately recognized the forceful scrawling of his father, from the ‘Aditya’ on the envelope. It was a small letter which said only this –
“Why did you never tell me that you like Ghazals?”
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