I found out that 9 July 1981 was a Thursday. I had forgotten. That morning was my father’s last.

I realise I don’t remember much. Just that he was a tall man with long strides, bespectacled, heavy and handsome. When he fell ill of course, he walked haltingly, bent and leaning on others’ shoulders. But mostly he was carried around and deposited inside a car, an ambulance or the bed.

He had a disarming smile and endeared himself to most people without trying too much. A great many of his uncles, aunts and cousins were regulars in our house at Chennai, and his name would often get taken with fondness. He had a sense of humour that ensured that laughter was a prolonged affair when the family gathered every evening.

He was a sports enthusiast, knowledgeable about cricket, hockey, tennis and badminton. I don’t think he played any sport himself. He would turn anxious and fearful when I ventured out to play. He worried that I would injure myself. Having forewarned me, he would yell if I came back injured. ‘I told you so’, he would remind me unfailingly. ‘Be careful’ was a watchword I picked up early in life from him.

He was well-informed generally, but I don’t recall him reading anything other than the daily newspaper. Oh yes, I remember him reading the Vishnu Sahasranamam and a couple of other religious texts and hymns—more like a daily habit than something he relished.

He was an avid music listener. One way to know he was at home was if even from a distance, we could hear the National Ekco radio in the living room at home broadcast to the entire colony. He liked music from Hindi and Tamil films, Carnatic and Hindustani music. I don’t think he had any formal training in music but he could guess ragas correctly just based on the initial exertions of a classical musician.

As I grew up, we would have friendly contests about names of the film that featured a song that was playing. Likewise, he would challenge me and my three sisters to guess a raga when a concert was being aired on All India Radio. My ear for a variety of music was developed thus. It also helped that my mother played the violin, and my sisters spent some years learning it.

He introduced us to Tamil film music, movie soundtracks and plays on Vividh Bharati – All India Radio (AIR) Madras , Aap he ke Geet and Binaca Geetmala aired by Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation (SW 25 and 41 M), Sangeet Sarita, Man Chahe Geet and Chaya Geet (Vividh Bharati), the world news from the BBC (SW 25 M) and the news at 9 pm on the All India Radio, Delhi (Surujit Sen, remember anyone?). And there was the National Programme of Music, featuring stalwarts of Indian classical music.

Even after the arrival of the two-in-one transistor–tape recorder, his first love was the radio. It remained a steadfast companion till his very end.

He tracked our academic progress closely. He didn’t take too kindly to any of us doing badly in math. He was good at it. His brother was a mathematics professor. My eldest sister was a math whiz. When I was in the 8th grade, I remember him chasing me around the house, broomstick in hand, all set to give me a thrashing, because I had scored just 19% in math. It was the very first assessment in a school I had joined in Chennai after some years of schooling in Gorakhpur. I was a deep embarrassment.

I don’t recall that he showed much excitement when I played competitive badminton. I guess my wins made him happy. My playing for my university and state as a youngster must have given him joy. After the ritual congratulations, he would follow up with, ‘When are the school/Board exams? When are you ever going to study?’ It was clear that for him sport was for recreation and studies were for life and a living. Badminton was an expensive sport. It couldn’t have been easy to support it. Also, my game and rankings were picking up at about the time his health was going downhill and there was much else for him to think about.

There is not much I know about his early years. The truth is, I haven’t asked. I assumed it was emotionally demanding territory. His father died when he was young and his step-brother took him and his mother with him to Mangalore, where he was a lecturer in St. Aloysius college. He remained in Mangalore till he turned 18.

He was like many Indian men, a mama’s boy. Till his very end. I am sure it had consequences for the other woman in the house, my mother, in terms of dreams, desires, space, choice and autonomy. This piece is not about her story. So we will leave it there.

He was a man of limited means and few wants. For a salaried man, a government servant (in the Railways), IRAS to boot, a large family was always going to be a challenge. He was austere, and non-acquisitive, content with a few chairs, a bed, a dining table and a functional kitchen. And yes, not to forget, the radio. He never hankered after material goods. No car, scooter or bike, no refrigerator, no sofa, no fancy woodwork or furnishing. So the bungalows we lived in seemed larger than they actually were. So also, no loans for the most part. None of the gnawing EMIs. My mother, I suspect, kept a running account of debts she accumulated with her father and brothers to make ends meet.

I recall him being described as self-effacing, scrupulous and conscientious, a stickler for rules and one who hesitated much before seeking a favour or asking that rules be bent for him. Further, if my recollection serves me right, it was foolhardy to get into an argument with him. He could wear you down, not always with the better argument but by simply being mulish.

I never heard him express regrets, or disappointments. Never once have I heard him curse the process of life. Never that he was a victim and that life owed him something as reparation.

An abiding memory is about his last three years. He would be bundled into a car or an ambulance in the morning every alternate day, dispatched to the hospital for dialysis. By evening when he returned, carried back to his bed, a stack of files from office would have made its way to his room. After some rest, if he was in decent shape, he would study each file lying down, make his notes, affix his signatures and when all files were done, turn his attention to other things. Some days, he would simply cry off. The following day, he would be carried into a car, taken to office, and helped to his seat. He would sit as long as he could. He would rest a while in a bed arranged in his office and get back to work after a short while. His colleagues chipped in hugely and supported his version of ‘normal’.

During his last couple of years, he was mostly skin and bones glued together by his will to live and support a family. One morning where the call to yield to the heavens above was too overpowering, the good fight ended. He just went limp in my arms in the car as we rushed him to the hospital.

Before you move to other pages and other chores, take a few minutes to listen to Kumar Gandharva.

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