No Accident- A Short Story

                            

                                                          

It happened on Walker Hill, Shimla district on a beautiful summer afternoon. The ‘accident’ that people talk about till today, and just can’t understand how it could have happened.

Or why?  

But for some of us who know better, it is clear- it was no accident. The  car that was involved, seemed to have simply flown  over the protective iron railings on the hillside,  and of the three men travelling in that car, one was dying and the other two gravely injured with multiple  fractures and severe bruising. And in the moments that Jatanbir breathed his last, he told his father Harjit and brother Amandeeep, '‘It finally managed to get us. I knew all along that this would happen one day, the only thing that I didn’t know was, exactly which day would be my last. Look after yourselves and please, please, look after my children.”

A tortured breath escaped his lips, his eyes rolled up and he found the peace that he had been craving. 

Finally, in death, if not in his entire life of a mere forty three years.

                         

( NB-Image sourced from the Internet)

For understanding the events of that day, I will need to tell you a little about Walker Hill. And later, I will tell you how that ‘accident’ happened. Or at least, the version that Harjit and Amandeep told us.

A small town on the outskirts of Shimla, Walker Hill is built on an actual  hill, 5 km west to the Shimla Ridge and is a part of the seven-hill cluster.  In the past, Walker Hill has been used as a residence for Mahatma Gandhi, who stayed here at the Georgian mansion of Rajkumari Amrit Kaur during his Shimla visits. These beautiful pine and deodhar laden slopes have many quaint residences, like the one belonging to the family of stunningly  beautiful, world famous painter Amrita Shergil . Besides being a popular tourist destination, the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies housed in the former Viceregal Lodge, which was built in 1884-88, is on the nearby Observatory Hill. Today, it hosts the Himachal Pradesh University, started in 1975 and mainly offers post graduate programmes in Humanities, Commerce, Science, Management, Law and Languages.

In the early 1930’s,  a wealthy landlord from Punjab, Sardar Tarlok Singh Sachhar bought an estate called ‘Oakley’ from Brigadier David Bryant, an Englishman who had made India his home after retiring from the Indian army. Sardar Tarlok Singh knew he had managed to get that estate at a real bargain. With over twenty  acres of land, apple orchards and a large, beautifully built main house with five bedrooms spread over two floors, indoor plumbing, water and electricity, it was an absolute delight. And so it became the annual summer retreat for the entire Sacchar clan, including his bachelor son, Manvinder and three daughters Kulvinder, Sukhpreet and Amrita who would congregate there for the summer vacations bringing their children with them. It was an idyllic time for all and they absolutely adored the fabulous weather, the picnics in the orchards, complete with fabulous teatime treats- including clotted cream and strawberry jam sandwiches, scones and fruit cake, or at other times, a packed lunch with delicious dry ‘masala chicken ‘sookhe aloo’ and ‘paronthis’ as they were called in Punjabi.  

They also had  a  free run of the entire estate, with one caveat-barring the old garden shed in one corner of the estate. Sardar Tarlok Singh had made it clear to all that it was the one area that they must never venture towards.You see, only he knew  that was the sole reason why he had managed to buy Oakley at such a bargain. Just before signing over the property to him, Brigadier David Bryant had shared the reason why he was selling the estate, one that he had grown to love so dearly, and moving back to Oxford in England. He was convinced that his son Captain Jason Bryant had met an untimely death at the hands of Kamalini's ghost Kamalini , was  the young  daughter of  their gardener, who he had enticed, impregnated and finally deserted, when she had insisted that he must marry her. When he had outright rejected her and his unborn child, she had gone to the garden shed in one corner of the estate, locked  it from inside and hung herself on the wooden beam that ran from one end to the other.

By the time her father, gardener Roshan Lal finally managed to break down that door with the help of the other servants, it was too late. She was dead, as was the five  month old foetus she had been carrying.

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It was only a few days later that Jason began to look terrified. When his father asked him what was troubling him, all that he managed to stutter was that he wouldn’t be around in this world for much longer and that no one should have any doubts as to what had happened to him when they came upon his dead body. And then told his father that Kamalini had visited him the very next day after her suicide and had promised him that she would have her revenge.

                                        ( Image sourced from the Internet)

As it happened, both Jason and Kamalini were right, because they found Jason hanging at the very spot that Kamalini herself had been found. Some of the servants thought that it might have been a case of suicide, but Brigadier David Bryant knew better. For he too, had seen the dead Kamalini walking through the gardens in the early hours of the morning, and knew that now it  merely a matter of time.

Which was exactly what he shared with Sardar Tarlok Singh when he sold him the estate,  who  still went ahead and bought the estate, because he knew very well that he would never be able to get this kind of a prime property at such a bargain otherwise.

Time passed and after his death, Sardar Tarlok Singh’s only son, Manvinder inherited the estate.He occupied it  and started spending his summers there while continuing  to live in Patiala and managing his farmlands during the rest of the year. Since he was a bachelor, there really weren’t any complications and he had a very efficient estate manager, Hukam Chand who kept his life stress free and both estates in Punjab and Himachal running smoothly.

Occasionally, a rumour went around, people in Walker Hill wondered,  was he really the heir, or a mere pretender to the estate, but since the answer was entirely unknown with no one to answer it, life went on.

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1995

But things have a way of changing and sometimes they tend to take an ugly turn. As is exactly what happened when Harjit, (Manvinder’s son) found a loophole in the their deceased grandfather's will and decided to take matters into his own hands. Accompanied by his sons Jatanbir and Karamjeet, one a beautiful summer day, , they drove straight into ‘Oakley’ in their 4WD, broke the front lock and after gaining entry into the main house, set up home and hearth  in the estate. Harjit was a severe  alcoholic and had three sons, of whom Jatanbir was the oldest. Jatanbir was also the most cunning of them all and despite not having had the opportunity of a college education as he was always busy trying to pick up the pieces left behind by his drunk father, he also had the responsibility of providing for the rest of the family, which had increased considerably by then. 

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And from here, a chain of inexplicable events began to unfold and things soon begin to spiral out of control. Weird and scary things started happening to the residents of that property  and concluded with a terrible tragedy. One day, soon after their arrival,  a series of small fires broke out within the house and as soon as they put out one, another one started. It  almost seemed as if an unseen, yet very determined, invisible hand was starting those fires. And that was repeated at least once every week, they just never knew when it would start and when it did, nobody knew how to bring it under control. Everyone’s nerves were shot and the tension, unimaginable. A couple of the ladies felt as if they would have a nervous breakdown and then, one of them actually did.

 Then there were other times when a wraithlike figure was seen walking in the vast grounds in the early hours of the morning. The only time someone dared to follow her, and come up fairly close, she appeared to evaporate into thin air. All that remained hanging in the still early morning air was a faint fragrance, something that smelt like a perfume but the top note was unmistakably that of rotting flesh! And once that choice bit of information that they tried very hard to keep under wraps, (but failed miserably) became public, everyone in the house, including all the servants were absolutely petrified. You see, just like the fires, they never knew when this eerie figure would make its appearance, and then quite literally, vanish into thin air.

In all of this, it soon became clear that was one person who was more affected than all the others, and that was Jatanbir.  he became extremely ill with a very high fever that refused to break for five whole days and even when it did, it would recur every two weeks or so. He fell very ill and lay in bed, weak  and gasping, it seemed that the doctors could really do very little to help him. And even when he recovered, he remained extremely fearful-  with very good reason. 

One day, when he was feeling considerably more ill than usual, his father Harjit insisted on taking him to hospital where numerous tests were conducted on him. The result was a rude shock for all of them- one of his kidneys was very weak and the other one was doing badly too. The doctors immediately started him on a treatment plan to help him in the short run, but were fairly candid about the long term course of treatment- it was clear to them they said, a kidney transplant was the only option and advised them to look for donors at the earliest.Of course, that was  easier said than done- the clock was ticking and unless they managed a kidney donor, Jatanbir was only going to be around for the short,  and certainly not  for the long run. 

Not long after this, Jatanbir’s wife, Marina fell  gravely ill too. The reason for her illness was identified many tests later- it was fourth stage lung cancer. The attending lady doctor had tears in her eyes when  she told them that the only thing they could do for her now was  to keep her as comfortbale as they possibly could- she had only months, if not a few weeks to live. Mercifully for her, Marina’s  weary and broken body gave up the fight sooner than anyone could have predicted- three weeks after the diagnosis she was no more. A  thirty six  year old woman in the prime of her life passed away , leaving behind  two small children, a  husband who was already seriously unwell and a large family, all of whom loved her unconditionally and would have done anything to save her. 

If only, there had been even the slightest possibility of that.

But events for the family were to go from bad to worse, until  finally one day, a Honda car was seen by eyewitnesses as “ flying high up into the air, almost as if it  had been thrown up like a giant ball.“

This was followed by a loud bang, after which there was only silence.

Followed by the groans of the grievously wounded and dying.

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It happened on Walker Hill on a beautiful summer afternoon. The ‘accident’ that people talk about till today and just can’t understand how it could have happened.

Or why?  

But for some of us who know better, it is clear- it was no accident. That Honda car had gone over the protective iron railings on the hillside and of the three men, travelling in that car, one was dying and the other two gravely injured with multiple  fractures and severe bruising. And in the moments that Jatanbir breathed his last, he told his father Harjit and brother Amandeeep, ‘It finally managed to get us. I knew all along that this would happen one day, the only thing that I didn’t know was, which day would be my last. 

"Look after yourselves and please….please look after my children.”

    

Revsiting the Euthanasia debate

It's a very difficult time for the family of a terminally ill patient under any circumstances, and it is even more difficult if that same family is called upon by doctors attending on the patient to take the final call on whether the patient should be allowed to continue suffering or take the option of letting that patient go- slowly but surely..

All these thoughts as well as so many others crossed my mind some years ago as I stood inside Medanta, the Medicity in Gurgaon, India, (after my mother had been through a minor surgery and was being discharged that same night) and listened to a conversation between some doctors as well as the family of what was clearly a terminally ill patient.

I heard one of the sons tell the doctor how he didn't  want to come back home from work in the evenings because he was faced with the sight of his ill father groaning in pain, day after day. At that point, a friend of theirs chipped in with the comment that despite all that was wrong with that older gentleman, it was their duty to ensure his life was prolonged as long as possible.

“‘To what avail,’ asked his older daughter, “when all my father can do is look at us from his hospital bed and ask all of us, 'Why are you crying'?”

And that really was the crux of their dilemma to hold on or to let go? Not something that many of us are even prepared to think about as it seems so far away. And if I might add, far fetched as well, until it impacts one directly. 

(Image source-http://www.catechism.ca/the-bible-and-euthanasia/)

But Mark Twain once said, “The fear of death follows from the fear of life man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.” And I agree with him completely! Ten years ago a British man with terminal cancer travelled to Switzerland and drank a lethal solution of barbiturates to end his life, with his son and daughter by his side.

He was the first of more than 180 Britons to be assisted to die at Dignitas, a Swiss organisation founded in 1998 which helps people with terminal and incurable illnesses to end their own lives.

While euthanasia and assisted suicide are illegal in the UK, other countries, like Switzerland, do permit assisted suicide in specific circumstances and Dignitas is the only Swiss facility to accept foreigners.

Dr MC Mishra, the former Director of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, while talking of passive euthanasia says   "We doctors encounter this dilemma when we are faced with terminally ill patients, when we know that it is an exercise in futility to use resources to keep the person alive. In such cases, we talk about passive euthanasia with the concurrence of family members. Passive euthanasia is partly permitted and implies withdrawing life support when a person is not mentally alert. Mental alertness is assessed by the Glasgow Coma Scale (GCS) score, which tells us the level of consciousness. In normal individuals, the score is 15, and for those who are brain dead, it is three. A GCS score of less than eight means that the patient is not conscious, her airway is threatened, and her chances of recovery are less. But if the GCS score is three, the possibility of recovery is practically zero unless there is a miracle. I have not seen such miracles happening in clinical practice.

On the other side, the right to life is an old debate. When the Supreme Court heard the challenge to the imposition of Emergency, it rejected the argument that in India, the right to life available to a citizen flows from Article 21 of the Constitution, and that if such an Article were to be deleted or suspended, the citizen would have no right to his life under law.

As far as I’m concerned, this is an extremely personal decision and choice and I can understand that some people with a terminal illness might be tempted to use this route.

 

Then again, many others would definitely have exactly the opposite point of view. I am not there to sit in judgement either way. Suffice it is to say that each family knows what is best at any given point in time.

And the debate over euthanasia- to do or not to do, will probably go on and on...

(NB-These are excerpts taken from my piece in the Muscat Daily Oman.)

The Turning Point, A Short Story

Nitin and Varsha were invited to Sulekha's birthday party.

Sulekha was Varsha's 'forever' best friend and the party was something that was bound to be a fun affair. Starting off as a leisurely lunch on a Sunday, it was meant to progress on  to tea and who knew, the possibility of the cocktail hour loomed large as an exciting prospect as well.

But things don't really change very much and  as it happened, today was no different. Nitin was ready, dressed in his 'Sunday best' while Varsha was still in her nightgown.True, she had already bathed and her clothes lay neatly on the bed. Nails varnished and make up applied, all she had to do was change, run a brush through her hair and she would be ready to leave.But what about all the household chores?  There was a mountain of laundry to be tackled, she had to sort out all their clothes for next week's ironing and the groceries had yet to be ordered.

Suddenly it was all too much for her and Varsha felt overwhelmed. The last week at work had been really tough, she had completed a very tough assignment and handed it over to her boss who had taken a cursory look at it and in a few words, told her it wasn't upto scratch. Net result- she would have to go in tomorrow and start it all she had all over again. To top that, she had the beginnings of a splitting headache and despite the painkiller she had just taken it seemed to be building up.

And how!

"I really must lie down for 15 minutes", she thought. It was just past 10 and they had to leave by 1230 in order to get to Sulekha's place in Andheri East.

The thought had barely crossed her mind when she did exactly that. Five  minutes later, or was it just two, she was lying in her soft, and comfortable bed. 

Fast asleep...

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"Hey Varsha, we will be late", called out Nitin from where he was busy watching the IPL unfold on television. 

"Come on, lets leave soon Varsha"

"Or at least as soon as you get ready."

 No response...

Another beer and 15 minutes later there was still no response and that was when Nitin decided it was high time to look into the matter. Driving to Andheri wasn't going to b e easy, even on a Sunday and he wanted to be sure they made a whole day of it.After all, it was the weekend, wasn't it?

Grumbling under his breath, he went towards the bedroom, everything was silent.

"What the"? he muttered and opened the door.

Looked in and saw Varsha stretched out on the bed.

Fast asleep.

Looking around, he could clearly see the signs of all her work in progress. The laundry basket with the dirty clothes, neatly separated into whites and coloureds lay on one side while another basket held the clothes that clearly needed to be ironed.

And Varsha looked so small..and very tired.

He felt his heart melting and in that split second, he realised what a male chauvinist pig he was! In the two years that they had been married, she had borne the brunt of running the household, He was ashamed to recall, the many, many times 

( just like today) when he had treated his "weekend" as sacrosanct and made the most of his time off.

" Chilling out" he called it- a couple of beers, good sex with Varsha followed by the evening out. And to him, it was all perfect- Time out for both of them. 

But something had to must change now,he told himself sternly. 

He wasn't going to be his father all over again.

Sitting with his feet up and relaxing while his mother, also a Professor at a leading women's college, worked hard through the week and then worked hard during her weekend as well. Cooking, cleaning and getting the house organised for all of them.

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"Oh God, have I been sleeping"? Varsha woke up with a start.

She felt rested but she also felt worried. She still had to tackle the laundry, the ironing... 

..and...and..

Looking around, she could see that something was different. The room was neat and there was no sign of the piles she had made some time ago.

And what was that sound? 

Could it possibly be...?

the washing machine?

That was when she saw Nitin come into the room. Very quietly so that he wouldn't disturb her.

"Oh you're awake? I hope I didn't...?"

And in a flash, Varsha understood.

Understood why everything looked so neat and clean.And why she could hear the sound of the washing machine in the background.

It was all because of Nitin.

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Coming up to her, Nitin stretched out his arms and drew her in gently.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She could see the glint of tears in his eyes and knew that it was a turning point.

Life had changed for them today.

And she was convinced, life was going to stay that way.

Sheer Coincidence or Divine intervention?

Say you decide to take the Shatabdi Express from New Delhi station to Chandigarh, something that you've done at least a hundred times earlier.But this time, there's a real difference. For just after you've boarded the train and reach out for your wallet to pay the coolie, you realise that you've been pick pocketed.

Far more important than the money you've lost are your ID cards, particularly those related to Health and Insurance, which might take upto six months be re-made.

But then you console yourself and finally shrugging your shoulders, you tell yourself that it could have been far worse.And then you carry on with your way of life and living.Exactly two days later, your front door bell rings and standing there, are three young schoolboys. After having introduced themselves, they hand over your wallet...which is now much lighter, but still has all your  6 ID cards!

Looking at your open mouthed surprise, they decide to enlighten you. 

They were on a school trip to the New Delhi Zoo  and saw this wallet thrown in a bin just ahead of the monkey's cages.

So they did simply what they thought they absolutely must.

And brought it back to you.

Image courtesy- Flipkart

Now this would be a story that I would find hard to believe, but I did. For it was told to us by my own father in law, Major General Sampuran  Singh  Ahluwalia some years  back, who is amazed and delighted with this sheer coincidence.

Or I'm left wondering.

Should I re-phrase it as 'Divine intervention'?

Mummy, my brave and beautiful guardian angel

It was May 77 and a hot summer afternoon in New Delhi. After finishing her Yoga session at the Vishwayatan Yogashram directly opposite Bangla Saheb Gurudwara, a poised young lady was walking briskly, keen to reach home at the earliest.

Just as she crossed the road, she heard a girl’s shrill voice, “Chhodo, Chhodo, Mujhe”( let me go)

There was a note of terror in the girl’s voice and as she came closer, the lady could see that a car had stopped on the road . While the driver remained seated, the other man was trying to drag the girl into the car and she was struggling to get out of his clutches. Without further ado, the lady ran towards them shouting, “ Leave her immediately or I will call the police .”

As she recalled it later, everything seemed to move in slow motion. She could clearly see the terror in the girl’s eyes, the anger and determination in the man who was trying to pull her in, the momentary confusion on the driver’s face as he tried to think of the next step. Over and above that, she remembered thinking that these two men were capable of anything in that moment and looking towards Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, she prayed “Madat Kar Mere Rabba”( Help me, God)

And then everything came back in sharp focus as the man threw the girl on the footpath, jumped into the car, the driver took off, and in the next moment, it was all over.

She helped the bruised and terrified girl up and asked her if she was OK. The girl replied that she could manage and all she wanted was to go home. After ensuring that the girl was OK, the lady stopped an auto rickshaw, settled her in and continued her walk back home. Once home, she heaved a sigh of relief, it was over but she was well aware that anything could have happened...

Mummy, newly married at 19

That brave lady was my mother, Biba Satinder Kaur and as I think about her on her third ‘Barsi’ I remember this and a thousand other wonderful things about her.

Mummy at 29, New Years Eve, Calcutta

Mummy’s love for nature, for all things beautiful, her immense love for her family, her deep and abiding belief in God and Sikhism, her steadfast loyalty to her friends, her care and consideration for the staff, of whom Jairam was the longest serving member. He worked for my parents for 39 years , coming in as a young boy and stayed with them till he passed away in 2016.

In the three years since Mummy’s passing, I have been through a roller coaster of emotions. The first year was traumatic and very , very hard. My father took her passing to heart and exactly 9 months later, left us to join her.

Three years after Mummy, I have finally understood that this is the new normal and life has to go on. Her warmth, her infectious laughter and her utter delight in every little achievement of ours is something which I treasure .

Mummy, May 2015

I’m convinced that Mummy is our guardian angel now - just as her mother was for her.

What are best memories really made of?

Today, I spent some time looking at some old photographs. 

Correction,  they were not really 'old 'photographs, but they date back to just about four or five years ago.

And what I saw saddened me a great deal. Because many of the people, including both my parents, in those photographs were no more. In particular, those who were in their seventies then (I counted at least six of them) weren't alive any more.

My late parents, Sardar Harnam Singh and Sardarni Satinder Kaur Serna

I spent some time thinking about it, then realised that there was really nothing that anyone could have done about it. All of them had died of old age or incurable illnesses and despite the best possible medication and hospitalisation, they eventually passed away.

The ultimate reality- no one lives for ever. Its their memories that will linger, like the fragrance of a beautiful and proud flower that once bloomed but eventually fades away..

Best memories are made of this

As the old adage goes, 'time and tide really wait for no one' . All we can do is to keep the happiest memories of  those who are now gone, close to our hearts and every now and then take a break, pause  and reflect on the best they had to offer us.

So one of the best things one can do is to look at a flower, a garden, a sunset and think of them. The associated pain may be more bitter, than sweet, but there is really no answer. One just has to live with and deal with it. 

Will time ever really heal that pain? 

That too is something that no one can really tell...maybe yes, maybe never..

But best memories are truly made of images and thoughts like these and by associating the things we love with all the things they loved, we are definitely doing the right thing.

That of keeping them alive ...forever...

Thoughts on Friends

Like many of us I love the thought of having friends-Truly something warm and comforting.

And have thanked God and my good fortune for the many good friends I've had as I've gone along life's journey.

The fact of the matter is that we can only really grow and flourish when we have the love and support of our friends who truly care. Care enough to tell us straight up when we happen to be going off track.

Or if we have really done so, helping us get back there.

Again and again.

Then again, if need be...

Friends Forever

So pause for a moment and reflect-How many real friends do you think you can actually count?

Even more importantly- How many people are you a real friend to?

Remembering my father- Sardar Harnam Singh Serna

My father-April 2018

My father Sardar Harnam Singh Serna left us on 14th of July 2018. It had been raining heavily almost all of the previous day, Friday, the 13th  of July and with a distinct sense of foreboding, I just didn't want to go back home- all I wanted to do was stay at the hospital where he had been admitted for the last 4 days. As it happened that night passed and we came back, driving  through pouring rain to meet him on the 14th morning and were with him as he left this world at about 1030 am.  

At  my father's Antim Ardas held on the 18th of July, in my Shraddhanjali to Pop, as we called my father, I was able to put together some top of mind thoughts which I'm sharing in this piece. 

'It was almost exactly 9 months ago that many of you joined us at this venue, Gurudwara Shri Vasant Vihar, to honour the memory of our late mother Sardarni Satinder Kaur Serna but in this very fact lies the irony as well as its beauty. You see, its really hard for anyone who knew both my parents, to separate one from the other-the old saying, “two peas in a pod” is probably the most apt one here.

Pop as we always called him, lost his zest for life after Mummy passed and as many people told me thereafter, he was never really the same.

 My father Sardar Harnam Singh Serna was born into a wealthy business  family in Rawalpindi, now in Pakistan. His father Sardar Balwant Singh was a devout Radhaswami and his mother Sardarni Mainawati was a gentle and loving homemaker who passed away shortly after the birth of my younger Bhuaji, Devinder Luthra. Despite growing up in a loving family where every wish and desire was fulfilled, my father grew up as a highly disciplined boy.Punctual to a fault, highly disciplined, deeply religious, usually top of his class, his zest for outdoor activities was no less evident and he grew up to be the proverbial all rounder.

Sadly, all that was to change during the Partition in Aug 1947 when as a young teenager, he had to flee his home and the only way of life and living that he had known till then. Pop often talked of Kushwant Singh’s famous book Train To Pakistan, which closely mirrored his own life story .Moving from one refugee camp to another, his family (in which his mother’s sister ‘Masiji’) played a key role,  finally reached Bhogal in Delhi where they set up a small home. Some time later, they moved to Jangpura, which became ‘home’  in a very real sense for a few years. Winning scholarships came easily to him and he completed his matriculation, finished school and joined Delhi College (now called Zakir Hussain College)  where he topped his BA Class. Soon after completing his MA in English Literature he was invited to teach at the very same college, and then later moved to Khalsa College. An interesting insight of that era and one that he always spoke of with a twinkle in his eye was the red coloured bike that he bought at this time- one which became a source of immense pride and joy for him.

Lasting friendships and strong bonds were forged by him during this time and there are many interesting stories that his friends have shared viz.Mr Amarjeet Singh as well as Mr Krishan Mohan, followed by Mr SR Wadhwa who worked with him closely in the Income Tax Office in Meerut.

Pop joined the Indian Revenue Service  opting for the Income Tax in 1957 and life took a different direction. From teaching young men and women in the University he moved into another zone and during his training at the Income Tax College in Nagpur, many more lifelong friendships and associations were formed. Meeting and marrying our mother Sardarni Satinder Kaur  in 1959 was one of the defining moments of his life.

My parents, soon after their marriage

Born with a golden spoon in her mouth, Mummy, fondly called Biba, was the eldest child of Sodhi Mahinder Singh and  Mrs Rajinder Kaur. From landed gentry, based in Ferozepur, Punjab, and direct descendants of Guru Gobind Singh Ji from my grandfather's side, they were an extremely progressive couple who firmly believed that education was the best gift they could give their children. Accordingly, my mother was sent to Tara Hall in Shimla while her brothers went to other reputed schools in India.

Mummy and Pop-14th July 2016 

Married for 58 years, till my mother’s passing, their relationship was unique- love, admiration, friendship and over and above all this, a huge amount of respect for each other  was what made this relationship so special. We saw it in all their intearctions and I’m confident, all of you saw it too.

Following are some personal insights about Pop via extracts from an article I had written on Father’s Day three years back.

‘Memories’

Waking up in agony and crying with an acute stomach pain at night. I must have been about 7 years old and we lived in Calcutta at the time.

Pop  came rushing in from his bedroom and asked me what the problem was. All I could manage to say  was, " My stomach is paining Pop. Very badly."

As it happened that day, our car was at the garage for some major repair and we had no means of transport. It must have been 2 am but my father didn't hesitate. He just picked me up and ran. 

Ran in the middle of the night for almost 1 km, till he reached the home of our family doctor, Dr. Mrs. Pai. Ringing the bell with quiet determination, yet ensuring that I was doing OK, my dad became a real hero in my eyes that day.

What followed was not quite as exciting. As it turned out, I had a case of severe indigestion 
( not appendicitis as my parents had thought initially) and after a dose of medication and a quiet lie in, Dr Pai drove us back home.

It was about 6 am by then after which my dad proceeded with his normal day's routine- got ready for the office,and worked a whole busy day while I rested at home waiting for him to return.

A bond was forged that day and one that continued for life. 

Of course Pop  did all the normal things that dads do for their children.He held my hand as I learnt to walk. He picked me up when I was low. He cared for me when I was sick. He gave me a warm and loving hug whenever I needed it. 

Over and above, he also did some interesting things such as accompany me for my night shift at the General Overseas Service  (GOS) at All India Radio, New Delhi where he would sit in the newsroom watching, listening to and making interesting conversation with all the famous newsreaders of the time-Lotika Ratnam, Vijay Daniels and so many more.

With my father-Dec 2016

Incidentally, I must point out here that my father was the only parent ever permitted to enter the "secure zone" of All India Radio . The reason- he didn't want to deprive me of a wonderful opportunity to experience the life of an English Announcer. Yet he wanted to ensure that I was safe and that all was well.

Makes me wonder how many other dads would have done this for their daughter?

I could go on and on- my dad told me and my brother interesting stories inculcated a love for the fine things in life- coffee, chocolates, eating out and enjoying being 'foodies' wherever we traveled and so much more.

Many years later, in Sep 2013, and then again in November of that same year, my mother had to undergo a major surgery. We were based in Muscat, Oman at the time and while we were fully abreast with all that was happening on a daily basis, we had planned to come to Delhi closer to the surgery. Goes without saying, my dad had to bear the brunt of the pre op tests, finalising the admission procedures, along with everything else.

Finally all that was done, the date for the first surgery was set in September and we reached well in time for the operation. My husband Avi and I spent time with Pop during the procedure and realised that he was in acute mental stress. Giving him a tight hug, both of us told him that all would be well, it was a mere matter of time.

We saw his eyes well up with tears and while he quickly brushed them away, he hugged us back and said, "I really couldn't have done this without  you,  my bacchas."

An unimaginably poignant  moment and I don't mind admitting that a few tears escaped my eyes too. Here was this strong man, my dad telling us that he couldn't have done it without us.

Pop with my husband Avi-2016

With my parents and daughter- March 2016

Some extracts from 'Tell me a story' that I wrote for my column My Take in the Muscat Daily.

Ever since people began to communicate with each other, "Tell me a story" has been requested by both children as well as adults.  There is something  fascinating about sitting around and listening to words which come out of someone else’s mouth and trying to put picture associations to those same words.

My brother Navtej with Mummy

As children, almost every night for many, many years, whenever we could manage, my brother Navtej
and myself would wait for him to tell us one of his enthralling tales. I don't know how he did it, but all his stories, whether based on real life incidents or a creation of his imagination, were very exciting, taking us into a whole new world,where we could actually almost see and experience all that he used to talk about. Which is exactly where I started from, that great pleasure that a child gets when ‘visualising’ what is being told. It is also a matter of great credit to the storyteller for being able to generate such a response in a young and impressionable mind and this is something for which I’m able to give credit to my father only in retrospect.

Particularly memorable were his stories about Air Marshal Arjun Singh and some of his daredevil missions in the skies.Then there were the stories which taught us all about our history, culture, tradition, valour along with great things that people had done and achieved in this world. These were the stories about people like Guru Gobind Singh, Shivaji Maratha, Rani Laxmibai and Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and Helen Keller.

Then of course, there were the funny stories, which consisted of make believe characters and an extended storyline where the four of us as a family would get involved in their lives and adventures. The real beauty of these tales were that these were a never ending saga and could go on and on endlessly, taking right up from where it had been left off the last time around as there was no defined beginning or an end to these.

Keeping both of us enthralled for hours and hours on end, then after one got over, repeatedly begging him, "Pop, one more, just one more"

And  he would always, always, always oblige.

Time passed and I became a mother.

Of a very bright child with an equally hungry mind.

One who demanded “Tell me a story” whenever she wanted to hear one. So that I learnt to delve into the inner recesses of my mind and pull out some of those I remembered my father telling me and when I ran out of those I learnt to improvise, just as I remembered him doing. Creating some characters with whom the family travelled together, went on adventurous trips with and did a whole lot of fun stuff. One of the characters who became an all time favourite with my daughter Neha was a little monkey who I called ‘Pikoo’ and one who went wherever my mind decided to take him. Alternately, wherever my daughter wanted him to go and so began the next generation saga along with a new series of never ending tales.

Today, as I'm reminded of those days, I'd like to take this opportunity to say “Thank You Pop, for that's where I really learnt my love of storytelling and now that of writing stories. I loved your stories then and love them even more now.”

At Mashobra- April 2018

Finally, I want to share some of the best times of our lives with Pop. As recently as April 2018, my husband Avi and myself  prevailed upon and succeeded in taking Pop to spend some time with us at our home in Mashobra. That fortnight will forever serve as the best memory  as we walked, talked, went out on day trips, met up with friends, sat and enjoyed a drink on most evenings, watched movies  and then  talked some more. He shared so many thoughts, experiences and stories from his life and all we could do was marvel and thank God that he was peaceful and relaxed.

Pop -Mashobra,April 2018 

I close with a beautiful line by Melody Beattie, one which is extremely apt for my father.

“Live from your heart, and share from your heart. And your story will touch and heal people’s souls.”

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