(2)... Papa's Last Summer
I rested while Prashant got the reservation for the late night train through someone he knew. I saw that he was also upset by the way he rushed around, trying incessantly to calm me and telling me that probably it was all a mistake, a ruse to get me over to Delhi for a visit. I smiled inwardly while he booked a series of calls to Delhi. As if he didn’t know that Rama would rather have chicken pox than me.
Papa and Prashant had always got along very well with each other. Papa was the only one from the combined strength of both our families who had stood firmly on our side when the problem of our inter-caste, inter-regional marriage had cropped up. He not only gave us moral support, but also encouraged us to get married through arya samaj when things became uglier than usual. Only Papa and my brother-in-law attended the wedding. Prashant was unemployed than and was studying to be a journalist. Papa helped Prashant to get a temporary job, and supported us with hard cash through first year of our married life. the Prashant qualified for the IAS, and we moved. For all this altruism, Papa was never quite forgiven by both the families. this was eight years ago.
Prashant startled me by saying that he suspected some medical report that might have diagnosed something serious. This opened a new line for my morbid imagery. I sat up and felt sick that anything so drastic might have happened. I visualized white intensive care units with Papa in a coma under a gas mask and blood and glucose being pumped into him. Perhaps cancer. Or a heart attack. I resigned myself to hoping that he would not have to suffer too much.
In the train I tried to read, but this vision kept appearing relentlessly. It was worse when I went to sleep. I dreamt of Papa happily flying a kite with Arun. Then he stepped backwards to tighten the string, and went on moving step by step. As the kite soared cheerfully in the sky. Papa took one more step back, and overbalanced. He crashed down, the flimsy railing on the terrace tearing apart with his weight and hanging apologetically, broken and useless. Again, the white shirt, the crimson blot, the still figure sprawled in death.
Both Rama and Rahul were at the station to meet me. Tight-lipped and gloomy-looking, they seemed to confirmed my worst fears. Rama appeared haggard and tearful, and this sort of surprised me. She must have loved Papa a little - in spite of constant complaining to everyone that he was irresponsible and immature. Their most serious disagreement took place when I was in Delhi...
Rama had booked tickets for a round trip for Papa for all the religious places in India. Papa refused to go. She said it was a surprise present for him. Papa said he was not interested, and they had a long and unpleasant argument about it. The crux came when Papa took a holiday all by himself in Kathmandu because he said that Rama and Rahul were sick at the sight of him and wanted him out of the way for some time. In Kathmandu he discovered the dubious pleasures of charas, and tried it out as a new experience. When he told about this at home, Rama had hell to pay from Rahul.
Rahul, the sober executive type, correctly dressed as always, glanced with distaste at my salwar kameez, which I had worn for traveling, and said a curt ‘hello.’ I responded reservedly, as was my wont. We had never got along ever since I had started being the independent type, instead of remaining the traditional sister. In some bitter moments of our teenage together, he had often gone to the extent of saying that as far as he was concerned, he did not have a sister. I shared his sentiments, though I never saw the point he was making. Amma agreed with Rahul as he was the only son. My un-sisterlike behavior made her very bitter against me.
“How is Papa?”, I asked.
“We’ll tell you everything when we reach home”, Rahul said.
As Rahul started the car, Rama asked, “How is Prashant bhaiya?” I said he was fine, and would perhaps join me in three or four days. Rahul asked if I had been ill. I looked so thin and worn down. This was something he always got a kick out of asking, so I said, “Oh no, not at all”, and complimented him on his prosperous figure. My brother and his wife have what can be called blooming personalities, which may have gained a few pounds each time we met. But they like themselves, and that is what eventually matters.
The drive home began telling on all our nerves. I asked the routine and expected questions about ten year old Arun and eight year old Arti. They did their best in inquiring about everyone related to Prashant, with none of whom he had any cordial relationship. Rama told me that if I wanted to have a child, I had better have it now, as it would be next to impossible later, and I replied dutifully and minimally to all this. I could sense that Rahul, the pillar of solid reason, was deliberately avoiding any mention of Papa till we reached home. It made me very anxious.
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