Requiem for the beloved

They wanted me to mourn - that was strangely clear. Mourn until my tears go dry. Visitors to my father’s funeral did not like to be disappointed. I am not supposed to engage in such behaviour especially at a moment like this.

But I cannot mourn. I cannot cry.

Come on, this is your father’s funeral, I felt their whispering roars. Why on earth don’t I cry - they were surprised, sceptical, cynical and reproachful. But my problem still existed: why should I mourn?

My aunts tried to analyze me. Perhaps something terrible has happened between father and I. May be I have undergone a troublesome period with him. My uncles - good old gentlemen they are - had different opinions about my behaviour. But they had more serious concerns: politics and social deterioration.

I was in my own world of thoughts, so I didn’t hear an aunt approaching me.

“Oh poor fellow, I feel terribly sorry for you.” She gave a bear hug.
’But why should I feel sorry? Why should you feel sorry for me?”

She did not hear me, as she was hurrying to my mother. My aunt wanted to console my mother. My mother, in reality, needed no such consolation. She was quite all right, it was others who made her cry too.

And I was smiling.

If I were a kid, they would have understood the logic - poor kid doesn’t know his father is no more. But I am 18.

That means I am a teenager. That means I must know how the world goes on. Didn’t we have a good relationship? What would my answer be, if someone poses such an inquiry?

My father was a decent gentleman. I do not think he ever had an enemy. More important, my father had been a wonderful creature. He had been a wonderful father. I have ample grounds to roam happily. I look at his serene face.

With my eyes fixed on his calm composure, I remember how he cared for me. That’s all one precious montage now. He was my first hero.

“Whatever you do, the door of my heart is open for you.” Soft and warm, the words have pierced my heart. That warmth is one wonderful feeling in this world. And there is nothing to worry. So how can I cry, if there is nothing to worry? He had done nothing to regret. I had done nothing to regret.

My father did not hesitate to take me to the Rock and Roll concert. Back then I had hardly any idea what his cup of tea was.

But later I realized he was interested only in classical music. All the same he enjoyed the concert with me. Was it feigning interest? I have a feeling it was, just to make me happier.

As the concert drew to an end, I was glum. The drizzle outside the hall made me feel worse.

“I thought you enjoyed the music, son.” He had read my face.
“Of course I did, father.”

“Then why do you look so gloomy?”
“Because it’s over.”

“Everything has to end. If you feel gloomy, that means you had not enjoyed while it lasted.” I listened, he resumed.

“I don’t know what’s there to cry. What I know is that I still remember how you enjoyed it.

So now I’m happy because that was a happy episode. When it’s gone, I have that happy episode to cherish.”

My father was not a philosopher. But he understood me. May be he foresaw what is happening in his health, and wanted me not to mourn his death.

I look at my close relations, including mother, crying and sobbing as the coffin lid shuts on father.

As black dust rises in clouds, I know it is finally time to part.

I am enthralled with the memories of him. Clutching all those sweet memories, I throw a whisper unto him:

“Good bye father, I love you.”
He was not able to take his eyes off what he had written so far.
Beyond this point, Aravinda could not think of anything else to write either.

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