December 25 is a very
important day for me not because it's Christmas but because it is my late
father's birthday. In 2010, in his
absence, I still planned on celebrating his birthday in my home as a guest I
was expecting that day also shared my father's birthday. The guest, my sister's
mother-in-law was born the same year, and same day as my father.
She, her older son and his
wife were to be our guests on Saturday. I got busy getting ready on Friday. I
planned the menu and went to the stores to purchase the various items I needed
to prepare the feast. I was at BJ's to pick up a few items when my cell phone
rang. I answered and my son on the other end urged me to get back home right
away. He had received a call from my aunt in India that my father had taken ill
and that I must go to India immediately. As soon as I hung up, my phone rang
again and it was my sister younger than I by ten years and change. She was
sobbing. I calmed her down and returned home asap. I phoned the guests I was
expecting on Saturday and informed them that the next day's party was
cancelled. Next, I went on the Internet
and scouted for a plane ticket to India. All I found was a business class on
Qatar Airlines leaving JFK that night at 11:20 p.m. I booked immediately and
got ready for my trip. I was allowed two carry-on's and so I packed two
carry-on's. I didn’t bother about a check in. These days I lug only a carry-on
anyway.
As a business class passenger
I had access to the VIP lounge at the airport and my two sons and husband accompanied
me into the lounge and enjoyed the buffet dinner. We talked and joked around
and I felt convinced that there was no way bad news awaited me in India given
the joie de vivre of the present moment.
Once I got on the plane and
the pampering reserved for the non-economy passengers began I kept feeling that
an anti-climax ending awaited me in India. I poured my heart out to the kindly
passenger a burly man also of Indian descent. He assured me that my father
would be all right. I chanted all the religious chants I knew even as the knot
in my stomach tightened and the lump in my throat refused to clear. I found
even the pampering by the flight attendant, a handsome young man, annoying. I
asked him to just leave me alone.
After nearly 12 hours, we
landed in Doha, Qatar to change flights. Again, as a business class passenger,
I had access to a shower. I freshened up as I prayed. Afterwards, I realized I
also could access my email in the facility provided by the airline. I took
advantage of this. One email's subject line read: your father.
As I opened it, I kept hoping
the news was good. It wasn't. I just broke down. I have no idea how made it
back to the plane or climbed all those steps leading to the cabin carrying my
two carry-on's. The very first flight attendant I encountered I communicated my
story between tears and later to a young passenger next to me, an Indian
student returning home for vacation from the US. I felt ashamed I was pouring
my heart out to strangers but I had to. Or else I would have exploded from the
kind of sorrow I had never experienced before. They all understood and were
kind and consoling.
Four hours later, on December
26, 5:00 a.m., I was met at the airport in India by my cousin. He had lost his
own parents recently, and before him I was calmer even as I hoped that the
email he had sent bore incorrect news.
When I got to the house where my father's body was encased in a frigid
glass box I was speechless. Nobody was crying. The mood, of course, was somber.
As I circled the box I spoke to my father silently. “What did you gain by
refusing to return to the US per my request asap.” He looked handsome, healthy
(what a joke!) and taller than he was when alive and only asleep not dead.
My mother, always a
philosophical person who also had been in depression since 2006 January was
eager to have the body removed asap. Guided by the priest, I carried out some
minor rituals and the body was gently placed on a palm frond bed woven fresh by
the priests then and there and carried away in a van for cremation. Dad had died within two hours after turning
81 on the previous day, which was also his birthday. Later, my research showed
that Shakespeare too had died on his birthday. It was the month of April and I
wondered if it was Easter.
I blamed myself for my
father's death. Had I not gone to Europe in October 2010, my father would not
have left for India though my suggestion to him was to stay in Boston with a
family friend for ten days while I was away. Anyway, as soon as I returned from
Europe in November, I did insist that I'd bring him and my mother back to
Oceanside where he was getting excellent medical care and every time he went
into emergency he returned safe and sound. But he wanted to wait till March
when the weather got a bit warmer. March never came.
My biggest fear when he chose
to go to India in October was if something serious happened to him he might not
survive. For extreme health issues, I felt that the US would have been the
right place for him. I think I was right. But in this case, right is not what I
wanted to be. The only saving grace, I kept hearing from relatives that he was
very happy those few weeks he was there. I wasn't surprised because over the re he felt so much more independent than in the US.
For whatever reason, for many
years now, even before my father's passing on his birthday, I feel
superstitious about birthdays. Normally the adventurous kind, however, on
September 10, 2001 when I encountered extreme weather on the boardwalk in Long
Beach where during warm days we go for a walk, I wanted to return home pronto.
The next day, 9/11, was my husband's birthday.
Now, last week, when my
mother had a heart failure and was admitted to the hospital, I felt terribly
pessimistic. Why? Because March 6 was her birthday. Thank my lucky stars, that
day, just like I wanted, I took a bouquet of some choice flowers for her and
right now she's recovering at the south shore health center, a rehab facility
in a neighboring town. No matter, I will continue to be superstitious about birthdays.
Love you, dad!
Ciao!
