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  She shrugs, ‘There is a thirty per cent chance that we may be able to arrest the decline and thirty per cent to slow the progress.’

  Then the doctor asks me, ‘Has he control over bowels and bladder?’

  I nod vigorously, ‘Absolutely! Nothing wrong there.’

  I glance at the prescription slip; I read Dadoo’s score – 3/5. Three out of five, not bad. Or is it?

  He is on medication. It is a heavy day, full of strain and tension for all of us.

  I get frantic calls from my siblings. Vikram, my elder brother calls from Chandigarh; Mala didi, elder sister, from Goa; and Deepak, the youngest of us all, from Singapore. Everyone wants to know what will happen now. Mamma is laden with grief and she repeatedly asks, ‘Is it necessary to put him on medicines? Can’t we do something else?’

  We all know that there is no option.

  To deviate our minds from this sudden reality check, which none of us was fully prepared for, we decided to focus on the goodness in life and chose to celebrate it. My parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary is due in about a month. We plan a bash so that he can meet all his extended family.

  3

  17 February 2010

  My fiftieth wedding anniversary: Pages from Dadoo’s Diary

  There are so many people. Should I call them people or apne log, my relatives! I keep forgetting the occasion. Well, well, it is definitely a celebration of some sort. Oh! Asha and I have completed fifty years of our marriage. She is looking beautiful. But I am not at ease. Why do these celebrations have to be in a five-star hotel? It will cost a lot. But then, who listens to me now. Children rule.

  Though, thank God, my children are the best and most loving; I am so proud of all of them.

  To whom do these faces belong? Oh, this is Maya, my sister. And is that her daughter-in-law or daughter? And yes, my nephew, Sanjay, who is hearing and speech impaired. Are these small girls his daughters? There are so many others. No, I must not fret. I will just have to be calm and composed. Asha has said so. Let the children enjoy themselves. Yeh unka kaam hai (this is their work), they wanted to celebrate our golden anniversary, but then how can it be their work? Wasn’t I the one that always worked, Wasn’t I the one that everyone looked up to? Wasn’t I the one that made decisions in the family?

  When did this all change? Yesterday? A month ago? A year ago? How can they decide on their own what to do and what not to do, they don’t have the experience of life behind them. But who is going to argue with Asha?

  Whatever, I am happy seeing all my family here. My niece, Aadarsh from Mumbai is here too! And what is the name of the other one, Alka! Yes. After so many years we are together.

  I don’t know how to respond to these people’s greetings. I don’t remember them. I will just have to smile and nod. But there are so many people here. Two hundred, three hundred, can’t say. Do I know them all?

  How did they all assemble here, it must be either Rewa’s or Vikram’s plan. Is it something special? Why are they here? Why am I dressed in a suit and Asha in a sari?

  ‘Daddy, Mummy, come, let’s cut the cake,’ says Vikram, my elder son, happily giving his mom a peck on her cheek.

  Cake! Why is there a cake? What sort of function is this? I look at Asha to show me the way. I think she understands because she smiles, takes my elbow and whispers, ‘Come, let’s cut the cake.’ I am guided to the table. I try to smile, conflicting emotions arise in my heart; I don’t like all this drama.

  Oh my god! Is this a cake? It is a huge snow-white and golden thing, three layers atop each other. Now I just want it to be over and not think and analyze what is happening and why is it happening. ‘Achcha, okay, so we have to cut the cake,’ I mumble, smiling tensely and again looking for guidance towards Asha.

  ‘Yes, yes, Dadoo, though first you have to exchange rings,’ announces my younger daughter, Rewa.

  ‘Rings!’ I mumble, helplessly. What are they talking about?

  ‘Of course, the rings. Wedding rings!’ says Asha cheerily.

  I am still at a loss. Whose wedding? What rings? And then I read on the cake, ‘50th Wedding Anniversary’. Oh yes, now I remember, it is our wedding anniversary. I am delighted. I lovingly look at Asha who has given me all love, affection and support. What a lucky man I have been. I am blissfully happy as I look at all the smiling people around me, my own people, my relatives, friends and my children.

  ‘Where are the rings?’ asks Deepu, my younger son.

  ‘Rings! What rings?’ I ask surprised, the smile wiped off my face. I have forgotten again.

  ‘Oh Daddy, the rings you have to exchange today on your fiftieth anniversary,’ says Vikram hugging me and kissing my forehead.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I mumble.

  ‘Here they are,’ says Mala, my eldest child.

  I look around, every one is smiling, so naturally I smile back.

  ‘Okay, who goes first?’ I ask bewildered.

  There are loud guffaws.

  ‘Of course, Daddy, you go first, and then Mamma,’ declares Vikram.

  I am handed the ring by someone, there is too much confusion, I look at Asha lost and though I love her I cannot express it; this is all so alien to me.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I hear someone say out loud, ‘don’t hurry, let us take some photographs first.’

  ‘Photo! Why photographs?’ I ask bewildered.

  ‘Of course, it is a special occasion,’ Asha murmurs.

  ‘Daddy, go slow, we have to take pictures,’ says Deepu. I am getting irritated with all this tamasha (fuss) but then, what can I say. Asha is beaming, how this lady likes all these formalities! I am strained now and I can feel my smile disappear under this unknown atmosphere. ‘Come on, let’s get on with this,’ I mumble.

  ‘Shaant ho jao, shaant ho jao [calm down, calm down],’ mutters Asha, who can sense that I am getting fidgety.

  ‘Okay. Okay.’ I say. What else can I do?

  Thank God. It is all over. The rings have been exchanged and the huge cake has been cut. Have I ever cut a cake before in my life, I can’t recall. There is animated conversation going around but I can’t make much about it. Asha has guided me to a sofa.

  We are both sitting; the others are all around us. Now I just want this drama to end … suddenly there is loud applause. I snap out of my reverie and look at my younger son-in-law, Rohit. He is announcing something; I can’t understand anything in the cacophony. And then a white board is placed in front along with a computer. What are they doing? Rohit is standing near the computer. I want him to stop all this nonsense. Enough is enough now. We should eat and leave.

  Where are we? Oh yes, I remember, we are in the hotel where Vikram works, the Taj. How much will all this cost? All sheer wastage of money, but now they don’t listen to me, not even Asha. I glance at her; she is happily looking at Rohit, waiting for whatever they are doing. I have no choice.

  ‘We are all here for a very special occasion,’ says Rohit, ‘This is a great day for Daddy and Mummy.’ He adds beaming.

  Oh yes, today is my wedding anniversary, it brings a smile to my face. Fifty years with Asha and I am surrounded with all my lovely children and relatives.

  But what is he saying? I can hear my heart beat irregularly.

  ‘We’ve made a film on the life of this self-made and farsighted person – that filled up our lives with joy and happiness – our Daddy. Even though the majority here know him, this film is a tribute to him.’

  A film! How could he make a film on my life, from where did he get the information. I am zapped. I look around, all of them are smiling. But I am scared. Why? Why did I agree to all this? I was never told about this film thing. What is in it, my life? How could it be? What was my life? Thoughts swirl in my mind toppling over each other. I can’t recall anything that can be put in this film. Am I not a worthless fellow? I did nothing in life. Are they going to show all this and embarrass me. But then what can I do, no one listens to me. I look at Asha. It is no use, she is beaming wit
h pride. Silly woman, I clutch my shaking hands and resign to my fate.

  ‘This film will showcase the life of Daddy and Mummy. It is sketchy because despite our efforts we could not get all the old photographs.’

  What is he talking about? My life? Asha’s life? What do these children know about my life? But now do I?

  4

  Dadoo and Mamma have gone to sleep after the party and all of us, brothers and sisters are in the living room. I have asked them to talk about their relationship with Dadoo. But there is silence.

  Finally Mala didi starts to speak slowly and softly. ‘I am forty-nine years old now and my earliest memories of Daddy go back to the time when he had started building the house in Solan. I was about six then and he was thirty-six. It was 1968, a very different era. In those times people used to build houses only after they retired from service or they just went back to their villages to live in their ancestral houses. But Daddy was different. He had the house built and ours was the second house in this area – the only other house was the palace of Raja of Bhagat state. I remember Mamma telling me that there was nothing but a jungle all around and it was considered a dangerous and lonely area infested with wild animals. People were surprised why Daddy was building a house in wilderness. He would tell them, “Today it may be lonely but it is cheap and I can afford it, after some years it will be one of the most expensive lands in Solan.” How right he was! Our house is in the middle of the most posh area of Solan town today.’

  ‘What else do you remember, didi, from that time?’ asks Deepak, as we all look at her expectantly.

  ‘I was a small child then but I have clear memories of both Daddy and Mamma working like labourers while constructing the house. They carried cement, sand and bricks on their heads while I played in the sand. They were not ashamed of doing so. May be Daddy did not have money to employ more labourers, but they were so proud of building their house themselves. Daddy was also the second person in the town to own a vehicle. It was a second-hand scooter that he bought on installments. Everyone looked at us with awe and my friends envied me and treated me with special favours because of it,’ she says laughing, ‘and you know my childhood was very secure and bindaas [carefree]. I don’t have any regrets. Daddy loved us all but more than love, he respected us. This is very important for a child.’

  ‘Yes, he would always explain things in detail, even minor issues, with lot of reasoning. He allowed me to disagree with him even as a child. He always respected other’s decision,’ recalls Vikram smiling.

  Mala didi continues, ‘I was about eight when I fell for a pair of purple- and orange-coloured earrings, which were for five rupees and were considered very expensive those days; besides, Daddy’s income wasn’t that much but, of course, I was blissfully unaware of that. Anyway, I told Daddy that I wanted the earrings and for one week, he would take me to the shop and reason out with me that I should drop the idea. He told me that those were expensive and he could not afford it, he would tell me about his monthly income and expenditure but I was too young and foolish to understand that. He told me that they were too big for me, the colour would not suit me and so on. But I was adamant. Finally he purchased the earrings for me but before that he made me promise that for entire one year I would not ask for anything else. I readily agreed, one year was too far but the earrings were right there gleaming in front of me! I was delighted and felt on top of the world. But this happiness did not last long.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask, curious.

  ‘There was a birthday party in the neighbourhood after a few days and Mamma gave the earrings as a birthday present. I cried and cried. In the evening when Daddy came I complained to him. I still remember his words to Mamma, “Asha, that was a wrong thing to do. These were her earrings. For one full week I tried to convince her to drop the idea but she did not agree. She promised me that she would buy nothing else for the entire year if I bought her those earrings. You had no right to give away something that belonged to her.”’

  ‘There is another incident that I recall clearly. I was very fond of burfi and that too from Premji’s Sweet Shop. He made the finest burfi in the world. Daddy used to buy it regularly from there but suddenly he stopped bringing it from Premji’s. I threw a tantrum, “I will not eat any sweet which is not from Premjis.” He told me that others also made good burfi, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ultimately Daddy took me to Premji’s shop, and that’s when I got to know the reason why he had stopped buying mithai from there. The owner’s son, who had started to sit at the cash counter, was Daddy’s student. He refused to take payment from his teacher. When we entered the shop, he touched Daddy’s feet. Daddy said to him, “I am in a dilemma. My daughter likes sweets only from your shop but you refuse to take money. I want to buy sweets from your shop so that she is happy but I will do so only if you take the payment otherwise this poor girl will remain unhappy.” Thankfully, for me, he understood and I was able to have my burfi.’

  Vikram adds, ‘Yeah, didi is right. Daddy always stood by his principles. I also remember an incident, once a man from Kuljar, our native village, had come to meet Daddy for some work. He had brought lots of gifts – sugarcane, jaggery, ghee and even a box of mithai. I was waiting for him to go so that I could savour all that. Daddy talked to him for about half an hour and to my horror the man left taking all those gifts back with him. I was so depressed that I started crying. For a long time Daddy kept on asking me the reason for my outburst. I was so angry at him. In the end I told him the reason. He laughed aloud and hugged me and said, “It was wrong to keep this mithai.” And then he explained, “It is not wrong to express gratitude by giving gifts to people we love and respect and we must honour the feelings of others. But this man wanted an undue favour from me. That is unfair.” I asked him, “Will you not do his work?” He shook his head, “I will try to help him if it is fair, just and right. He has come from so far with so much hope.” I was confused and reasoned that if he would do the work, then it made sense to accept the sweets and the other gifts. He explained to me that had the man come without a motive, he would have accepted the gifts, but this was a kind of bribery. He told me not to be greedy in life.’

  Suddenly Pooja, Deepak’s wife intervenes, ‘Can I also say something, didi, as a daughter-in-law?’

  I nod.

  She is emotional and talks between sobs, ‘When I got married I found Daddy to be hyperactive and too energetic. I did not understand him but then slowly I realized what a caring person he was. He was more caring and protective than my father. He accepted me like a daughter. He would always stand up for me, I clearly remember how once he did everything he could to get me a visa for Singapore, where Deepak was posted. We had gone to Chandigarh for the visa application. The officials there were quite rude and indifferent; and without even listening to us they told us that it would take lot of time. Daddy first tried reasoning out with them, but then it gradually led to a heated argument. But Daddy ensured I got the visa the same day. That’s when I realized that till then no one had ever fought for me or for my rights.’

  ‘He always encouraged me to study. I had never dreamt that I would study further after marriage. He was the one who motivated me to join a distance-learning course and used to tell Mamma to let me study when I had my exams.’

  ‘I admire him for his adventurous spirit and his pro-activeness. He is such a friendly person. In Singapore he used to chat up with everyone around him, in markets, buses and trams. He was never class-conscious and used to bring Indian workers to our house and would ask me to serve tea and food to them. After he left for India, these people would enquire about his health regularly and always ask if I needed any help. He gave love and received love in abundance.’

  ‘When I was expecting Madhav, he was so caring, frequently asking me whether I needed something special to eat. He is a man with a clear heart: Couple of times when he scolded me only to realize that I was not at fault, he would come and apologize. I believe that he is the best f
ather in the world, and I think he loves me the most.’

  Deepak looks at his wife smiling and says, ‘This is impossible. I think he loves me the most because I am the youngest.’

  ‘No, I think he loves me the most,’ says Mala didi, ‘I am confident I am his favourite child. I am guilty of not becoming his ideal child but now when I am nearly fifty I realize that despite all his efforts – to providing me the best education, to showering love on me as much as he could, to giving me so many other opportunities – I did not make use of them because something, somewhere went wrong. I married very young without parent’s consent. Daddy was so angry with me. For years he did not make any contact, but later he reconciled and accepted me. When he saw that I was unhappy in my marriage he told me to walk out of it and return to him. He always said that he would support me and my daughter and we need not worry. But I did not have the courage. I only wish that I should have paid heed to what he was saying much earlier. I wasted many years! Now I am divorced and happy. I love him the most in the world and I know he loves me in his own special way.’

  ‘Let me tell you all something,’ says Vikram raising his hands, ‘once I had asked him this question, who was his favourite child and whom did he love the most?’

  ‘What did he say?’ Mala didi asks expectantly as we all look towards Vikram.

  ‘He said, for parents all children are the same but parents love that child the most at a given point of time who is in trouble,’ said Vikram.

  Suddenly Deepak asks, ‘Was Daddy always bald?’

  ‘Deepu, don’t ask childish things, what kind of question is this?’ I object.

  ‘I am not joking, I am curious. I want to know. I do not remember seeing him with hair.’

  He has a point, I start thinking and get a vague and hazy picture of his with thick mane but I am not sure. As far as I remember he always had less hair on his head, though he was not bald. I am about to say this when didi intervenes, ‘I remember that he had good black hair, but he lost these quite early, probably in early forties.’