My father was born into a big family - he had 3 brothers and 7 sisters - a veritable cricket team! In addition, there were several first cousins, second cousins and cousins twice/thrice removed living along with them. The house that my grandfather built was huge and was able to accommodate all the members of the household.
Every year, like a ritual, we would spend our summer
vacation visiting my grandparents' place in Madras. Every one of my father's siblings would also
come down to the grand place and life was one big playground - cousins of all
ages, each of us vying for attention, playing games, playing pranks. It used to be two memorable months of
non-stop playtime and fun.
When I look back, I think of my grandparents and their home
as a huge banyan tree with deeply laid roots that held and supported the entire
family. Soon, with each of their children moving out to other cities and
starting families of their own, it felt like part of the main root was transplanted
into these different cities.
My parents set their roots in Bangalore. They laid the
foundation, built a home and family, nourished and supported my brothers and
me, nudged us in the right direction of career and family and soon each of us
went away to different locations.
My parents lived in the same house for well over 40 years.
Home for us was always my parents’ place. Home meant a place where we could be
ourselves; where we could be seen, be loved and be cherished for the 'persons'
we are with all our faults and blemishes; where our needs were always given
priority, where tasty food was prepared lovingly after considering our likes,
dislikes, and favourite dishes; a place where we could share our thoughts
freely and not be judged, a place to literally put our feet up.
As far as I was concerned, my home and roots now meant the
roots that my parents had put down - firm, strong, stable, supportive, and
ever-nurturing. Even with a home and family of my own, I continued to think of
my parents' place as the one that had the roots planted firmly.
A few months back, my father passed away at the age of 88,
having lived a long, fulfilling life - living independently, always calling the
shots and always being in-charge.
Suddenly with his demise, it felt like the huge tree that had sheltered us
all, had been completely uprooted as it came down shattering to the ground.
With my father's death, I now no longer have a parents' home
to go to. It was a safe place that I could run to anytime - sometimes to hide,
sometimes to heal, sometimes to just be. It has not been easy, but I am slowly
learning to overcome this huge feeling of loss and come to terms with my grief. While trying to make sense of life and death,
I realise that a part of my father lives
on with me. In all my thoughts and memories, he will always be there. In his
passing away, he has passed the baton to us. He has passed on the roots taken
from his parents and has handed it to all his children to be firmly planted at
our respective homes. I now carry forth those same
roots, passed on from one generation to the next, to grow and nurture my
family, to guide and shelter my children, to grow into a loving and giving tree
that can sprout branches while keeping the values and roots of my forefathers
alive.
Note: Pictures and images have been sourced from the internet.
