“Hello”

“Bhaiya, Dad’s no more”

“OK, Take care of mom. I’ll be there by tomorrow”

It was 4 a.m. in the morning when my phone was buzzing with the calls from all the relatives I had; some to sympathize me and some to do more or less than that. I woke up with the news from my younger sister, and like yet another day took my day’s first fag and followed the routine; black tea, gym, bath, newspaper, breakfast… and all those stuffs which I do every day. Although, I should be in hurry to take the first flight to India, but I wasn’t feeling the haste. It was the person who used to play with me every time I needed a friend, has died. I should be shocked to death or at least numb for a moment. It was my father who died… the person who is responsible for my breathings, but I wasn’t even reacting. It felt like I’ve waited a lot for the day.

I was on the afternoon’s flight to Delhi when all started recapping; my alcoholic father whom I’ve never seen going at work, though I’ve heard from mother that he used to be the most prestigious person in the Delhi Stock Exchange. But since the day I came to my consciousness, I only saw him in fuddle and anger. I only saw him thwacking my mother and myself. All started recapping; how I did the thing which I shouldn’t have done that night to my father, despite of the fact that he was about to kill my mom. It was yet another night for us of terror and thwacks then why I raised it!? Since that night I neither talked to my father and nor had I made any eye contact with him; neither when I got the scholarship to study in US nor when I got married. I should have contacted him for once at least to make him realize that what he used to say about me was bullshit, that I can never be a moneymaker, but I never did so because he, as a father, never cared to know my well beings. He never cared about what I’ve become or who I was. He always cared about his bottles.

Reckless memories of my father narrowed the 23 hours journey to a minute and brought me back to the place where I never wanted to come; Delhi.

It was a normal environment at the house, not like what it should be in a typical Indian house where someone died just a day before; house of dolor. Few relatives were there which I could recognize from my maternal side but hardly two or four from the other side. They’re taking the sip of tea and blander dashing on the recent government’s decision on price rising, banning beefs and all which don’t relate to the person for whom they’re there. The condition at the house was not surprising to me as the person who died had not done any good to other people. Even if he had, then it must be lesser than the bad ones. And it should be; no matter how much good a person had done to you, a single bad thing can ruin all the good deeds. Neither there was something like my father owned any property so, that his relatives would even able to find a part in it. It was looking like the people at the house were not there to sympathize us, but just to confirm the death. All eyes were on me seeking tears on my eyes like a daily soap drama.

“Oh my son! Poor son! What happened is not good. I am sorry for your loss”, it was my mother’s only sister who once used to damn on our family and my father but was now hugging and consoling me as if she was the only well-wisher. Once according to her, it was my mother’s fault to get married to an alcoholic person and her luck that she got married to an NRI. 

“It’s very kind of you. Now if you’ll leave me then I’ll see mother”, though there was no need to consolidation as I was OK but I wanted to see my mother if she is fine. But she was fine… more than I was, though I could see the dried tears on her lid which was showing that she was done with her mourning.

“How was the flight? Well, let’s get done with the tithis”, mother said while calling the pandit.

I decided to go with the Arya Samaj rituals. It is the century who believes in 320kps speed and so do I. The scene at the ghat was nothing less than like a local government‘s office. A huge number of dead bodies were covered with white cloths with a white flower’s ring bouquets and other rituals stuff lying over the bodies. Every single person was in dolor for their losses, but at the same time in hurry to get done with yet another formality.

“There you go. Our number is 23”, uncle said while handing over a piece of paper written 23 over it.

“23! I didn’t catch it”

“Well it means bhaiya’s body will get inside electric heater once these 22 bodies will get done. Thankfully the caretaker over here is a friend of mine so we get at least 23, otherwise it won’t be get done before 58”, uncle said while pointing towards the other bodies which were lying in the waiting hall with dad’s one too. It was unbelievable that more than 50 people died within two days in Delhi and more, that even after so, the population is increasing day by day instead of decreasing.

“How much time it’ll take”, I asked him so to confirm the exit.

“Well generally a dead body takes about 45 minutes but as Bhaiya was old and his body must contain more alcohol than blood, it won’t take more than 20 minutes”, uncle uttered with his filthy mouth, with a clinch of smile on his face. My dad was his elder brother and once he helped him to open a shop in the native place, so that he could feed his family. But all went in vain with his death that even his own brother is making fun of his void body.

While waiting for dad’s number, I saw those 22 bodies getting burnt and 22 different kinds of relatives of them; some in mourn, some in hurry, some damning the body and some taking last blessings. And then came our turn. It was unexplainable what I felt when dad’s body was getting inside the heater. I wanted to cry because no matter how he was to me or my mother, he was my father but I controlled myself because what he did to us was overweighing everything and for which he was never regretful.

Four days past by and I was done with all the rituals. It was my time to get back to my life which was less voided than this life. I was ready with my luggage to catch the first flight to SF.

“Son, there is something inside the drawer of your father’s study table which your father wanted you to check as his last words”, mom said holding my hand when I was about to get inside the taxi.

“I’ll check it next time. I am getting late”, I resisted seeing what my father left for me. It was harder to believe that he left something for me and if it is, then it can’t be a big thing to check out.

“I know son, your next time will never come. It IS your last visit”, mom knows me more than anyone and she understood that I won’t come back. I went to my father’s room. It was filled with darkness and the hawan’s smoke with folded mattress on the bed and empty wardrobe. Since five years I haven’t entered this room but now I was there to check his stuffs. It was the same table on which once my father used to work on the stocks and then used to drink hard enough to kill his consciousness.

I pulled the drawer and found the same rusted green colored steel box which I used to keep as my money bank. The box in which I used to put a one rupee coin every day before I left home. I loved savings and this gave me my career; a banker. The box was heavier than the time I left it. Those one rupee coins were having different specification in it pointing that in last five years, how many times the government has changed the design of it. There was a note left inside it with the coins.

SON, THIS WAS ONLY THE THING WHICH I COULD DO FOR YOU; FILLING THIS BOX WITH YOUR SMALL DREAMS. I AM PROUD THAT PEOPLE DON’T SAY THAT YOU ARE GONE OVER ME.

I AM SORRY FOR EVERYTHING.

And it rolled down from my eyes.