Sea baths, Pune visits and broken hands

As I sit outside the IMCU, waiting for my father to wake up, I think a lot about the past.

I think of the good times. I think of the happy times.

I think of the time when we went “seabathing” as he put it. I was about 10 years old then. My father held me on one arm and my sister on the other and sat in the waters of the Indian Ocean. He let the waves wash over us. My sister and I squealed in delight each time the waves hit us. My father laughed and held onto us tight.

He was handsome and healthy then.

I think of the time my father visited me in Pune. He came by train, just to see me, all the way from Chennai . It was a journey of nearly 28 hours. I was doing my Master’s degree then and was at my irresponsible best. I overslept that morning and awoke to the phone ringing around 10 a.m. It was my father. “You didn’t come to pick me up,” he said. He sounded so disappointed and hurt.

He was still strong and vital then.

I think of the time my father fractured his right hand, just before my wedding. His osteoporosis had made his bones so brittle; he was like the proverbial glass man. Despite the pain, he insisted on playing his role as father of the bride. He actively participated in all the numerous Hindu wedding rituals, wincing each time he had to feed the Holy fire with his broken right arm.