I land in Delhi at 1:00 am on 27 June 2024 and reach home at 2:45 am. My brother and sister-in-law are waiting for me. We hug; there is not much to say.
“Sleep,” I tell them. “You have been through much.”
Our father is no more.
Tomorrow is the cremation.
They waited for me.
I am grateful.
“I will bring Dad home from the hospital at 7:30 am,” says my brother.
It is 6 am.
My sister comes in.
We hug.
Our faces reflect our despair; our eyes reflect our pain.
“Dad went peacefully, Inni. Dad went peacefully,” she repeats, comforting herself and me.
I listen.
There is nothing to say.
My younger brother brings Dad home.
Dad looks twenty years younger if that is possible.
He seems to be in a deep sleep.
I wear surgical gloves and proceed to wash my father’s face. I trace the lines on his face—the face that lit up seeing his children, the face that lit up seeing his wife, the face that lit up at life. I wash my father’s hands, the hands I held as a child. I place my palm in his hand and just wait. I kiss his hands, place them on my forehead, and place them on my head. This is the man who cradled me, who fulfilled my every ask and who adored me. I wash my Dad’s feet. I kiss them and put my forehead on his feet, thanking him for being my father and loving me completely. Years earlier, I had told him, “You spoiled me. I thought every man was like you and would love me as you do.” He sighed and said, “Your sister said the same thing.”
I rest my head on my father’s chest.
Tears flow unabashedly.
I look up and say, “Papa, will you open your eyes?”
The child in me wants her Papa back. Intellectually, I know; intellectually, I understand. However, the distance between the heart and the mind is the longest and most difficult to align.
The family has graced me with this private time.
I say my goodbye.
Is it a goodbye?
The brothers dress their father, tie his dastar, and await the journey ahead. The ambulance arrives. The brothers and the attendants lift Dad and put him in the ambulance.
The oppressive Delhi heat lets up.
There is a cool, gentle breeze with a soft drizzle.
My younger brother says, “Dad would not want anyone to be inconvenienced. I am sure he had a hand in the weather change.”
I listen.
I smile.
I hear my paternal grandmother’s voice: “At your dada ji’s cremation, a small cloud appeared from nowhere and drizzled. The cloud did ‘namaskar’ to your grandfather. It was the scorching month of April in Kuwait.”
I instinctively climb into the ambulance, and my siblings follow suit.
“Dad was never late,” says my younger brother. We need to be on time.”
The 45-minute drive to the Lodhi crematorium was in silence. My sister, sitting to my right, was sobbing silently. My brothers across from me had a dazed and glazed look in their eyes.
I was numb.
I merely observed.
This was my first cremation.
I just followed as directed.
The ambulance reached the cremation ground. The sisters-in-law, granddaughters, and loved ones had spread rose petals and garlands of marigolds for Dad to rest on. It was an exquisite and royal resting place.
And then the torrential downpour happened for 45 minutes. I stood at the side where my father’s head was, just gazing at his face. The first-born son stood guard near Dad, shooing all the flies coming to find a resting place on Dad’s face. To witness the grief of my brother was quieting. He is not one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He was weeping uncontrollably, like a lost child.
The downpour stopped.
The sun came out.
Out of nowhere, hundreds of people dressed in white descended to pay their last respects. They were stuck in the downpour.
My brothers, the grandson, nephews, and loved ones lifted my Dad and proceeded toward the electric furnace.
My sister and I silently followed.
Dad was laid down.
The granthi performed the last Ardas.
My brothers did as directed by the granthi.
I observed, standing behind my brothers with my sister.
Dad was moved into the furnace.
I watched.
The furnace door shut.
I watched.
The people moved out of the area.
The siblings stood motionless.
What had just happened?
The kind, benevolent, towering presence in our lives was gone.
We have been orphaned!
