Arun inhales deeply, contorts his body in a suryaasan, and exhales his breath out in a rush. Memories of his father crowd into his brain like pictures on a screen.
A week ago came the earth-shattering phone call from Kakaji the manservant who had lived with his father for thirty years. More family than caretaker—Kakaji was lank and shriveled of limb, grizzled of hair with a crooked eagle beak, and a Hitler-like mustache, but dependable and always-present.
The funeral took place in 24 hours. “They don’t hold the body here for more than 48 hours, Arun beta,” Kakaji had croaked.
Arun slumps on freshly-cut grass in the backyard and lowers his head into his chest. His father’s sudden death caused Arun and Jennifer to clash, their raised voices like a hornet’s nest disturbed by a thrown rock. As the only son it was expected that in accordance with the teachings of Hindu religion, it would be his holy duty—his dharma—to attend his father’s funeral, abide by all the sacred rites and rituals and light the funeral pyre which would ensure the final repose of his father’s soul.
He had tried to get on a flight to Delhi over Jennifer’s objections to conduct the last rites, but the Indian Prime Minister had extended a moratorium on visitors from the US. With his adopted country leading the world in the number of coronavirus cases, that was hardly surprising.
He thinks about his inheritance and wonders if he will keep the apartment in Noida. Nah, neither of his two kids born in America and whitewashed, had evinced any desire to visit his country of origin. He will have to contact Anand Mishra, his father’s broker, and dispose of the property. Arrange for the transfer of funds. Even with the poor exchange rate, his father’s three-bedroom apartment should fetch a heavy sum. He can put it aside for his sons’ college trust account.
Arun runs his fingers through his grey-streaked hair mussing it so that it stands like short stubby stalks. He will change the name of the account to ‘Dadaji’s Fund’ and insist that his kids learn about his father’s legacy before they can access the money. And of course, he will retrieve and save Baba’s medals from the India-Pak war of 1965 where Baba fought on the border of Jammu-Kashmir, and was awarded the Bharat Rattan for his bravery.
A small smile plays on Arun’s face as he sees in his mind’s eye the red sofa on which his father, and he would spend lazy afternoons, with him pestering Baba to tell him the story of how he saved 74 troops under his command from an ambush by Pakistani forces. Yes, he will dispense with that old ratty sofa faded now to a pink on which he would recline after the red-eye flight from San Francisco. And, the stack of six daily newspapers—The Times Of India, Hindustan Times, The Indian Express, The Hindu and Economic Times India—arranged carelessly on the chai-stained center table that Baba would peruse as the voice of Rafi swelled inside the apartment, sedate and pleasant in the early morning.
The refrigerator with the barely eaten cartons of Tutti Frutti Kwality ice cream and boxes of Haldiram’s moong dal halwa he never wants to see again. His father’s pashmina shawl with its comforting smell of Colgate soap and Old Spice aftershave, that he would bring with him to California. The view from the living room where a small pond sparkled under the rays of dappled sunlight allowed in by a centuries-old sprawling banyan tree in the courtyard, where the neighborhood kids loved to let loose and play rowdy games of hopscotch and cricket—that he will always remember.
What matters most are the memories he shared with Baba and those are portable. Arun lopes across the yard, his mind made up. It is time his sons got to know their grandfather, even if its posthumously.
