So it was Daddy for me.
I being the only son, something my parents longed for, after the continuous flow of daughters, I remember my father, as a simple down to earth man, who migrated from Pakistan, after the partition. He descended from a very well to do family, of merchants and landlords, from Sargodha, in Pakistan today.
In this small town, situated in the so called backward district of Kalahandi, Orissa. he commanded immense love and respect, and was fondly known not by his name, but as Babuji.
I remember coming down during my holidays from school, I would love to hold his hand and walk with him past the Bastee. Reason being, so I could, savor my favorite game, counting the number of salaams he got, while skipping by his side, (I would pass on the score to my Mother, once we got home,) while going past the sleepy town, which had a strip of just one road, not covering even a kilometre.
The minimum that I ever counted was 57, and he would laugh, and tell me "give love, respect all you come across, irrespective of their age and financial stature and you will be loved in turn".
Just love and give was his mantra.
It was on Valentines day, this year, that I was rubbing his back, late in the evening that he beckoned to me, lifted his hand and ran it through my French beard. He smiled, that toothless smile, I gave him a hug, and he kissed me on the cheek, some thing he never did.
I left him to sleep, and sleep he did.
It was 20 minutes later that his attendant informed me that Babuji was not responding. I rang up my sisters informing them that Papa had gone.
That was the first time that I called him Papa. he is dead to the world, not to me though, not my Papa.
Notice how his memories bring tears to my eyes, something a dead man cannot do.....
