Disclaimer: Ignore this. I am just talking about my father. Not what I’d normally share here, but what the hell.
It’s heartbreaking to know at any point that your father isn’t the man he used to be. The man who used to take you to school every morning, even after a whole night’s patrolling on the streets, can’t now ride a scooter without falling off it. The man who lived a life full of power is now resorting to fucking yoga so he can move his hands and legs at will. The man who taught you to ride a cycle and ran behind you is now falling on the platform of a train station. And you are living your life.
My father has Parkinson’s. The second person I saw affected with it was D’s father, and it was painful to watch him go from an able man to one that needs help. And now it is painful to see how my father’s hand trembles when he is not aware of it. This is one of those things you know, things that never affect you unless you see a very loved person have it. And my father? The man who had a sniper shot? The man who won the President’s medal every so often? The man who put his family ahead of everything, even a fucking sword slash down his torso? The man who taught me how to love and live without listening to what the world has to comment? It is difficult when you know he is losing balance, or can’t do as easily the things he used to. It is difficult that he can’t go back to his shooting, the thing that he was best at in his professional life. It is difficult when he has to ride a bus, and not his two-wheeler on his way to the morning fish market. It is difficult when you are signing an insurance document in front of him, and all the while through the corner of your eyes, you see his hand shaking.
If there is one thing that scares me, it is old age, because I have seen what happens. I, like all of you, had thought my father was going to live forever, in his police uniform, with me putting in his badges, and go out fighting the mob. I thought he was going to outdo his entire batch when it comes to target practice. I thought he was going to be around to take my niece to school, the way he always took me, and talk about the time when we flashed before his eyes when he got cut up badly at a Muharram gone bad. I thought he was going to be the man who fixes the cylinder, the man who does gardening when he finds time, the man who sits outside the room when I am getting checked for a low BP. But no, today I have to call him asking if he has eaten, if he could swallow his food right, and if he is exercising enough to put debilitation at bay. Today I feel fucking helpless when he falls off his scooter, or when he has to hold his left arm tight so it wouldn’t shake as much, or when he says he stayed up all night because he was not feeling good. But then I talk about not being able to accept his condition? Imagine what he feels, each time he cannot do what he wants to do.
I mean seriously, there could a hundred men in our lives, but as daughters, can anyone ever take the place of dad? Is that even a question? I mean, I might have fought with him and told him things, but at the end of the day, the man I loved first, the man who still wins gold for me, the man who is the reason for everything good in me is him. And as a daughter, I feel fucking guilty that I should be here, living life like it’s no one’s business and he suffers. I wish I could turn back time you know, and go back to the time when Baba was my hero without that little “but” in between. That proud man who was good in everything he did. That strong man who could do everything, and look majestic riding his red Enfield.
But then, such is life. At least he’s there. At least I can pick up the phone and call him. I am fortunate, ain’t I?
Filed under: Days, Home Truth, Inside the wall | 1 Comment »








