August, just as its name, is so regal. This year it hits quite differently as it stumbles along heavy-footed and highly lethargic. August this year is an excruciating dead weight sandbag. Peppering the phases of sleepless nights and restless days are moments of regrets---unspoken words, words that could have been paused, things that could have played out differently, moments that could have been lived more deeply...
What once was a month which gifted colour back to the dawns and dusk as the shy, mellow sunshine breathed a golden glow in the air after the dense and gloomy monsoons bid a goodbye, August this year is a frosty overcast of a grey, damp July chill.
My dad's birthday falls in this month and if he had just made it four months longer, he would've been 80 years old on the 22nd. He had held with the last ounce of his laboured breaths to see this milestone which was not to be.
A final wish in his every delirium moment that would shatter my heart every time he expressed it longingly was unfulfilled in this lifetime. What a full celebration it would have been if good health was in his corner.
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Throwback several decades ago and greeting cards would be planned for his birthday. Around the second week of August, I would pour over all my Disney and Looney Tunes comic books he unfailingly bought for us every month end and select a couple of characters to sketch.
Oh yes! Those would be special, handmade cards illustrated with endearing baby animals with their cherubic expressive faces. And writing the greeting itself was such an exciting moment because father left no stone unturned when he celebrated our birthdays. There would be a jamboree of animated characters in various dance poses, some holding flowers, some--slices of cake and some wearing party hats jiving on those handmade cards. I would prepare these in secret and just the night before, I couldn't wait for him to wind up his day---
To tiptoe back into the dining room and to prop the card against some water bottles so that he wouldn't miss spotting that the first thing on the morning of his birthday.
It was a childhood thrill to see his face widen into the brightest of smiles and appreciate my creativity that always made my heart full.
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Flash forward three decades it was an unforgettable 2024 when the skies collapsed in an abandon of lashings. It was nothing less than my personal apocalypse.
August at present also snaps open the Pandora box of the first anniversary of my open heart surgery which falls on the 21st, the memories of which I wince at, but face them headlong at every given moment that I'm consumed by it. Courageously. I need to!
Sweeping them under a carpet, subduing the overwhelm would only result in a festering, a toxic element I wouldn't want to give any space to. Meditating to relive and deeply feel those emotions of uncertainty and fear all over again, to bless myself with affirmations and to release them into the vast folds of the cosmos with gratitude is an additional routine I've adapted into.
Last year, this time, sitting around low-spiritedly in my father's room I would stare into space, yet at the same time observe my father write Shree Ram Jai Ram Jai Jai Ram furtively in his sacred notebook with his failing health and shaky hands. The spiritual discipline he had never forsaken even in miserable times, would break my heart a million times over. That's the infinite faith and devotion he had in God.
These prayers and stotras would be offered every day dedicatedly for my successful surgery which was scheduled just a day before his birthday. I recall the day I wished him from the confines of a sterilised hospital room I was admitted into two days earlier. A birthday without the usual celebrations. The very last birthday he would be around us in this realm.
But here I am living to tell the tale. The deepest core of my being nudges me to believe that he sacrificed his longevity to add on to my lifespan as a holy barter with the almighty. The ultimate selfless largesse only parents are equipped with, to shower on their child. I recovered well too with his prayers and the goodness of his blessed heart which speeded up the process of getting myself back on my feet.
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2025 had arrived! With an unseasonal hybrid of seasons. The year started one way and conned it right off our hands in April. The day he was sent off on his final journey on the same path he had traversed during his robust youth and healthier days marked an end of an era. Our house of 43 years old that he had provided for us had witnessed his glory days gradually sapping the life force out of him.
As we stood under a scorching afternoon--- barefoot on the sun baked cemented path leading up to the gate, the overhead water tank of our house had overflowed tremendously, the cool water soothing all our feet. Father could never see us in distress even in spirit. This was a comforting moment of his presence around us.
Come to think of it, the house had symbolically cried in torrents during his inevitable sendoff decked in Tulsi garlands, Sandalwood and wreaths of marigold. A beloved person loved by one and all had lived a good, pious life. The house, inanimate as it seems, too could sense the aura of his voice chanting daily mantras and the lighting of fragrant incense sticks by him, fading away never to return.
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The somersaults of the past 4 months have been increasingly tiring as I wove through the fabrics of denial, disbelief and hibernated most of the time in the deep corners of my sleep, numbing myself to lose a few melancholic chapters…. maybe to keep the spark of some joyful ones alive, hoping to meet you again in my dreams. In my Happy Dreams. The ones which reassured me that this reality is just an illusion. And when I wake up, things will be the same as it was before. Unchanged. You and I, celebrating birthdays in August, mine in March…endlessly…you will be 40 forever and I, a glorious 10.
PIC COURTESY:PINTEREST
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