A forwarded message- ‘Yes, I am changing’ caught my attention. Over the years while time helped me to evolve, I have developed the skill to pull out the information and not get swamped by millions of forwards and messages taking the round on the digital media.
Coming back to the message that I pulled out which caught my eyes -“….I stopped telling the elderly that they have already narrated that story many times. After all, the story makes them walk down the memory lane and relive the past” This sentence looked very personal.
I have my 90 years old father living next door. Its been 18 months since he lost his life partner, knowing her for almost 80 yrs and as a wife for 54 yrs. I felt for the romance they shared. While he was travelling and globe trotting being a Journalist and the trade unionist- the job that demanded high responsibility and selflessness while India was developing wings after having acquired independence. My mother, a proud teacher held the fort at home and introduced us, her children to value life, giving, expressing, sharing and working.
Throughout this partnership I saw my father preparing the first tea for his wife. He held it strong that the romance began with the first tea and that also made by the husband. For him, it was the gesture of gratitude towards my mom as she made his home, raised his kids and valued his partnership and dedication towards the cause larger than life.
He belonged to the family in the business of newspapers and held this profession as early as 1860. He worked and was thrown out of the Imperial bank to holding a ‘dharna’. He became a hardcore supporter of trade union movement and held responsible positions. He traveled, gave up his surname ‘Gurtu’ and added Kumar so that his Kashmiri Brahman surname didn’t push other castes away or strengthened any preconceived prejudice. With that ideology he turned communist in his 20s.
A rebel, an idealist, an ardent reader, a revolutionary, my father had so much to share. I overheard my parents sharing poetry, prose, politics, issues, everything in the wee hours of morning while sharing their first tea.
On that fateful day when my mother left for her final journey, I do recall my father making the tea as part of his daily chores. And then, everything changed thereafter. Within few days, his long proud steps turned into baby steps. He started forgetting recent happenings. He started repeating things. He talked about his wife many times a day. He would talk about Gandhi, Nehru, Sardar Patel, his comrades. The trade union demands and strikes. The emergence of the third world, USSR, Marx, and all the books he read and savored and saved in his heart.
I would interrupt him, scold him considering what others’ would think of him. I started getting angry with his same questions, I hated to sit and hear his stories over and over again. I avoided him at times. He would climb 15 steep steps to meet me everyday which he never did in years. He would call out my name aloud when wanted anything. He felt my anger and started apologizing “oh sorry, I may have forgotten, so asking you again”
and one day I pulled the forward …..
Yes, thank you, I am changing now….
