Nightmares, that's how people would refer to unwanted and dreaded dreams. 20th June 2007, was one morning when I woke up just to find one of my most dreaded nightmares coming true. Churning up deep inside with me were the things which I think I would say to my Dad when he comes out of the ICU or in that case, comes back to Lucknow. Now, he never will.
This happens to be my final tribute to him and perhaps for the last time people are going to see my name on the chic pages of HT We. Perhaps some things never come back. Neither would he, nor I. I have been dreaming too long knowing that he had laid a path ahead for me. There sleeps the man, all in white, who filled colours into my life many a times. For once he wasn't sleeping in some cozy bed; instead he was in the chilling freezer of a mortuary.
Ever since he went far away, I have seen people walking up to me and telling me that I can do it and ultimately the difference between the past and present will fade away. I wonder whether it can.
His coffin on his way back to his home read "Human Remains of LATE Mr. A.K.Singh", that's where the difference is my dear people. The word LATE preceded his name and now it is going to haunt me through out my life.
Being the eldest son, I am expected to carry forward the legacy and I wasn't even allowed to cry. I just sat there holding the dead hands of my dad while he lay there straight without any movements.
Things flashed by and the lifeless hands were the most painful things ever because these used to be my pillar of strength and a lot more. I might have held his finger with my hands ages back when he was teaching me to walk on his and now he himself needed four shoulders.
He never preferred shortcuts. But somehow, one of his last wishes was about his cremation which he wanted to be by the electric furnace. We put him at the tip of the furnace, he didn't move. I put the pieces burning camphor up his chest, neck and other parts, he didn't react. Finally I pushed him in the furnace and switched it 'On'. I burnt my own father. Despite of the fact that nothing meant more to me than his gentle kiss on the forehead for every good literary work or a good deed.
I hear the words echoing deep inside me which remind me of the tricks he wanted to teach me and every time I would walk up to him and tell him that I wonder whether he has me. He always told me to sleep till I am fresh enough because once I am awake I have got to face the blues. I have been fooling around with my funny dreams but I have to aim higher because he wanted me to.
For once I started envying those people who have got Fathers. This Fathers' Day when everyone was busy celebrating the day, I was praying that some more days be added to my father's life but things didn't work out. I have lost my friend philosopher, guide and my Santa. Coincidentally, I started with HT writing about the Real Life Santas and putting full stop to my journey with HT We writing about my Santa.
Here is me and the wishing wells are drying up. The lands are parched and there is no hope. Open windows, let the rain come in. You feel alone and you have got no one to blame, say it to me. The temple bells still chime, and this is me the little boy who is left in his little world.
Seems like time gets lost in space. So, you know, how far you'll be.
-Piyush Singh
PS: This article appeared in the paper in the year 2007 and ever since then, I am often reminded of the people I have met and things they have said. I would like to thank Trinity, wherever she is and ofcourse Sera who lead me through this entire ordeal without letting me break down.
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