Down the memory lane…..

 It was not until I walked in to perform my father’s tri-pakshika that an unexplained sense of uneasiness hit me hard. I struggled unsuccessfully to regain that inner composure to perform the monthly death ritual. I think Srinivas Achar sensed this and did not mind correcting me this time. Perhaps, all these days, I was taking solace under the axiom that it was an end to his pro-longed suffering and so death was good. I came home, switched on the TV only to see the news flashing that SL Bhyrappa is no more. Suddenly the fingers of time played a heavy chord selection on the emotional strings of my memory guitar.

Two things that I and my father spoke a lot on; Books and Bollywood. Of course, it was him who introduced me to both; but over a period of time, on both fronts, I had carved out a niche of my own. So the debates concerning Books and Bollywood were always extended and serious. My father had this habit – He was always curious on what I read. Since it was one of the books from his own collection most of the times, he used to sneak in during my reading session to ask me – “what did you find interesting in that book” and then he would give his perspective.

I recalled a few lengthy conversations that I had with my father on SL Bhyrappa’s works, particularly his autobiography Bhitti, in which Bhyrappa has documented, in detail, the struggles of young self Bhyrappa. My father, somewhere deep down, had this delinquency that he did not do much for me and that I would do better in life if he had managed to facilitate my upbringing a little more structurally. He had said that he did not have the same delinquency about my sister because he knew her limitations, I had laughed it off, saying we both have anyway done good in life and it doesn’t really matter now. On many other occasions, we had debated on SL Bhyrappa’s other works too – Avarana were both our favorites. He did not like Uttara Kanda for some weird reasons. For some weird reasons, Lankesh was his favorite; But I hated him! Even to this day, it hasn’t changed J.

And then there were the Bollywood debates. He was a very serious movie aficionado. People who know him know how much he ate, drank and slept cinema. For the records, he has also compiled all his Kannada Prabha articles on Movies in a book named – Nenapugala Reelu Bichhutta (Translates to Unwinding the reels of memories) #TrueStory. I told him many times that is he is wasting his Cinema gyan, by not writing columns and anecdotes on national dailies and weekly magazines and monetizing it.

I had even told him very seriously that “If I were you, I’d work on a thesis and get a PhD on Bollywood”. He forced on me, his opinions of movies which were technically brilliant, but I wouldn’t get them because the stories were really duh! Movies like Pyasa impressed him, but I wouldn’t watch such movies at all and branded them “Patho”. For me, Bollywood was means of winding off after a busy day at work or road. So my go-to movies were the likes of Sooryavansham and Meri Jung - One Man Army, ROFLMAX! Occasionally, there were middle ground days where we both would watch a great movie together like Anand or The Guns of Navarone.

And then, there were the usual Indian middle class gyan :

“You guys are enjoying the capitalist regime. So you won’t understand the struggles of our Nehruvian socialist regime. I used to chase the BTS conductor to get the 75 paise change that he used to write on the back of the ticket so that I can use it for tomorrow’s journey “

“If you work hard and study well, you’ll do good in life. If you don’t take studies seriously, I don’t have money to buy you even an auto rickshaw"  (Hell, yeah. All my friends used to mimic this :)" 

The electricity and water bills that I am not willing to arrange as per the date; The LPG cylinder that he always remembered to book on time, but I am missing; Such small memories remind me of him and remind me of the void that is created without him. Along with it, it also haunts me with the memory of a feeding tube running through his nose, going down the throat and reaching his stomach; the memory of all skin and bones, at the mercy of doctors, his arms tied to the bed; his eyes, helpless and ruminating on the very nature of his existence. Arghhh!

Gods forbid, if at all, any of your loved ones’ life comes to this point of choosing between enduring cruel clinical procedures that does not come with any hope and a natural end, surrounded by his loved ones, choose the latter! I mean it. I know this is a million-dollar question, but be firm and choose wisely. The broad sympathies and discerning insights needed for the healing of earthly woes cannot be a mere intellectual consideration. As my father would have liked it

“Babu Mashoy….. Zindagi badi honi chahiye.. Lambi nahi”