THE DEATH OF A LOVED ONE

THE DEATH OF A LOVED ONE

The summer holidays were about to begin. Radhika was getting ready with the preparation of going home. Rajesh and Shaila were busy with their exams. But she could sense their suppressed excitement about the oncoming holidays.

Going home for summer holidays has become a yearly ritual. For the last seven yrs in succession every yr as soon the school closed Radhika had promptly kept the preparation ready for 1 and1/2 months holiday at Mysore. Ragunath her husband had never tried to break this routine. Being affectionate by nature Ragunath himself believed in developing the filial ties of his children. Having lost his parents at a very early age he had no objections in Radhika going to her parents every yr. Rather he made it a point to spent at least a week at Mysore in pretext of bringing back Radhika and children.

As Radhika busied herself with the day’s chores in their flat at Bombay, she noticed for some strange reason she had been feeling rather heavy at heart. With a near mechanical precision she had been going through the work. The days washing done, now it was time to fill his tiffin carrier. The doorbell chimed. When Radhika opened the door she found Mrs. Sen her neighbour “Radhika there is a trunk call for you from Mysore”. She suddenly felt her heart sinking. It was like she almost knew what the news is going to be. She dragged herself to the receiver “Hello”. It was her neighbor Satyam.

“Hello, Is it Radhika? Dear let God give you strength to bear the News Your father passed away early morning at 4.30 a.m. peacefully in his sleep.”

Looking at her ashen face Mrs. Sen kept a protective hand on her shoulders. All Radhika manage to whisper in the phone was “I understand uncle” and she couldn’t speak as spasms of sobs engulfed her frame. The last two days of heaviness was let down in a stream of tears.

Radhika was the last of their four children. Being the only daughter she had been the privileged right from childhood. As anybody could see clearly father and daughter were almost mirror image of one another and shared an empathy, which to this day she could not find in another human being.

It was like her whole world crumbled and left bare with nothing to look forward to. How she cherished the home coming every summer. It had been balm, a healing touch to go back to these familiar settings at Mysore, laze around in the spacious compound of their independent house. Help her father in the gardening of which lately he was getting more and more involved. Sit with him in the spacious grill verandah and sip the morning coffee. Go-for leisurely night walk on their open terrace, looking at the swaying coconut palms down, how they is to count with glee the small tender coconuts like counting chickens before it hatches. Life used to sound once more meaningful after the months of routine and humdrum life at Bombay. She used to feel secure and child like in her Fathers Company in spite of nearing forty and mother of two children.

She never realised married life would chain her with such heavy responsibilities, that of late she had started feeling aged. She had always been carefree never taking herself seriously in her younger days. Her father a bit of philosopher and poet was a real romantic at heart. No doubt she had imbibed the streak from him. Her father had always treated her a tender flower to be protected from vagaries of the world. Perhaps he found refuge in his pretty daughter where his wife was self willed and dominant.

Whenever he used to come back from tours there was always sure at least a small gift for her. The frocks she wore when small, the langas she wore in college and the saris selected with care for her wedding all had the imprint of her fathers selection in them.

A lover of flowers he had not only nurtured round the year jasmines and kanakambarams in the garden as she could sense it keeping her in mind as every summer when the flowers used to be in bloom, he used to pluk with care the flowers in the evenings. She and her daughter used to make thick venis and adorn their hair.

Now she could see him no more. A thick stab of pain tore through her heart. It was like a part of her has been wrenched and never to be joined again.

Like a homing pigeon she had always found her refuge in the warmth of her father. The uneasy fears, self doubts used to just vanish like dews in the early morning sun. Now where will the homing pigeon go?

In spite of seeing the uncertainties of life, she had never for a moment contemplated a time when her father would be no more. Perhaps that is Maya, the curtain falls over your vision when you refuse to see beyond the immediate.