SAMAJ WEEKLY, UK-
A tribute to my father
-Vidya Bhushan Rawat
My father passed away on this day nearly 49 years ago. He would have turned 93 tomorrow on October 28th, but he passed away a day before his birthday in 1976 at an age of around 44 years of age when I was merely around 8 years of age doing my primary education at local municipal school in my home town of Dogadda, Garhwal now in Uttarakhand but that time very much part of Uttar Pradesh. My father was a teacher of English language in the DAV Inter College when he suffered a unique problem in his throat. After much medication from all varieties of doctors, allopathic to Ayurvedic to local tantra-mantra things, he was taken to All India Institute of Medical Sciences in Delhi where he was detected suffering from throat cancer. It was definitely a new disease those days and we had no means for the same. Delhi was too big and alien for us. The AIIMS doctors transferred him to Safdarjung Hospital, perhaps a better hospital those days, I have no clue about it where he was operated. The doctors put a tube in his stomach from which the liquid would be given to him. His hard diet got stopped. After some time, he was brought to home but on the mid-way his tube got disconnected and he was in great pain. He was shifted to government hospital in Kotdwara where after several months of struggle for life he breathed his last on October 28th, 1976. My mother remained at the hospital for over several months serving my father. For several months, our education got halted as I used to walk around 4 kilometres from the home of my maternal grand father to the hospital and would carry the liquid diet prepared at home but my mother stayed with him and did not leave him for a single day alone in the hospital.
Life was difficult after the death of my father as there was none to support us. My mother was a simple housewife barely literate but definitely full of wisdom. My father’s college was DAV College which was taken over by the Government and named as a Government Inter College but since his services in the government college was less than 12 months, the government denied pension to my mother on the technical ground. My father actually was among those who worked to establish the school under the guidance of Dr Shiv Prasad Dabral, a pioneer on History of Uttarakhand and worked with him for nearly 17 years but then the government was not ready to accept his 17 years work worthy enough to have a secure pension for my mother but some how after years of struggle, she got some peanuts (pension) from the government which satisfied her to some extent as she felt not dependent on others.
I do not have much memories of my father but a few things and the most important as a child that I still remember was when I was in the fourth standard, my class teacher, beat me mercilessly resulting in the bleeding on my head. I went home weeping and that was the time, I saw him in anger writing a letter in protest to the headmaster of the school. I felt protected that time but the image of that teacher always haunted me even when I grew up and could never saw him in eye to eye.
The other image I remember was during his illness later in the same year. People would visit him, advise him, bring vegetables, ghee and other things out of respect as our home was a place for many, for stay. and when it was clear that he need to be taken to Delhi for further treatment A large number of students used to come to our home for guidance and many students from different villages used to live at our house as their parents could not afford putting their children independently or on rent. My father’s hand writing was beautiful. Those were the days when most of the teachers would use ink pens (fountain pen) for writing and in our child hood, till 5th standard, we were only allowed to use bamboo pens or Kalam. From 6th standard till 8th, we used ‘holders’ and it was only after 9th standard, that we were allowed to use fountain pens.
His students also inform that he was a wonderful human being who had mastery over his subject which was English language. He was a dark colour, thin person but very amiable. The one thing I remember is that he was respected tremendously and when he was being taken to Delhi AIIMS, I remember the entire town came to see him off. There was a huge crowd everywhere from our home till the ‘chauraha’ of the tiny town, everybody inquiring about him and wishing him speedy recovery probably that was still the period when people would care each other.
My father’s passing away created enormous problems for us. The first was that we did not have any inherited property. The house that we were living in was jointly shared by us and one uncle but the house actually belonged to our grandfather and his brothers. So it was a collective ownership of two grandparents who I never saw. Both of them had over a dozen of sons and daughters. We were in the third generation. So many of who, we never saw, started troubling my mother and asked for their share. It was difficult period as we lived in uncertainty for many years.
We did not have any ancestral land or property. The other crisis with me was that all my grandparents were no longer alive. In fact, I did not see my grandparents too not even their photographs so I don’t have any imagination of how would have they looked like. I can only remember my maternal grandfather (nana) who also passed away with in a couple of years after my father passed away. I never had an opportunity to see my Dada, Dadi or Nani. I remember my mother more because, I grew up under her. The reason, I am writing about my father is the feeling of how important it is for people to have parents or grandparents as they are source of your strength. Even a poor parent, in our social environment, actually do everything to support their children. Many times, when the father is not there or is dead, it is the grand parents who take care of their grandchildren and many times they do take care more than their parents. I did not have the luxury of that love which normally children get from their grandparents once they are in their care. Land was the biggest guarantee of your strength but we did not have that. So the struggle was much stronger and difficult to say the least. Life became extremely tough and difficult for us under these circumstances but thank to my mother and her inherent strength we survived and moved ahead with all these odds.
I have seen friends, parents posting their childhood photographs and that of their parents, grandparents and great grandparents. Many of the friends post interactions with their parents and certainly they are privileged. Yes, the biggest privilege of the world is being with the parents in your childhood and when you grow because it is the time you need them most. I feel how blessed they are who were able to enjoy the love and affection of them. In the last thirty forty years, I have documented stories from the margin, recorded conversations with people and felt blessed to have spoken to many of them who dedicated their lives for society. Personally, the sad part of my story is that I never had a photograph of my father or with him. There were one or two photographs with my family (I was not part of one). When he passed away, a local photographer tried to extricate his photographs for the purpose of memory. There are no photographs of grand parents or grandmothers. I only saw photographs of my ‘nana’ i.e. maternal grandfather. While we do know the name of our grandfathers, it is sad, we don’t even know the names of my maternal grandmother ( Nani) or Paternal Grand Mother (Dadi). This reflect how ‘important’ were women once upon a time? There is none where I could say, I am with them. Most of them passed away before, I was born. I have never really shown emotions in public but sometimes, one feels it internally.
The loss of this inheritance cannot be measured in words. When you don’t have anything then you have no identity. After my intermediate, I had to move out and my education became the worst affected. As I moved from one town to other, I lost everything which I can call my own. There was just my mother or my sisters who I could share. Many times, people ask this question as why did you leave your place but sometimes, they are ignorant of the historical and dark realities of lives. I have suffered a lot from the lost heritage but one thing was great. I always aspired to be loved and be with people. I was merely a village boy when I came to Delhi in the 1990s. Exploitation was usual if you stay with some known name. I had realised that there was no use of staying with any one known because they treat you the same way as they have seen it. I found solace with so many of the friends I met at the Green Park free church. That way, I respect Christianity and Christians for loving the people and teaching us to love life. Later, I got strength in Baba Saheb Ambedkar’s writings and he became my sole liberator. From him, he learnt a bit about Buddha and his Dhamma. My loss of inheritance at my place actually made me embrace the diverse world, different people and humanity as my own.
I still don’t have anything accept that people still know and love me at the place I was born in. The house where I was born is now occupied by someone else. Neither, do I wish to disturb them or any one because I know it well that once I start seeking a share, hundreds of others will join and people will only get one brick or stone as their share. The two grand fathers who owned the original house today might have great grandchildren nearing hundred. I still go to these places as I love the rivers, the mountains and the people in Uttarakhand. Even if I can’t see the image of my father or grandparents, I can feel them in the mountains and rivers of the hills.
Today, I can only say that every child deserves parents to say the least. If they have caring grandparents, it is much bigger. These relationships help us grow. Of course, those who suffer from their early childhood, they become stronger and on many occasions ‘angry’. There was an inherent anger inside me for the discrimination I faced at different levels, the gazing eyes of people who have lost your father, suggesting, iskee to kismet hi kharab hai’, he has ‘bad luck’, kind of absolutely demoralising statements. It is difficult to get away from the anger if you only read the ‘ideological’ stuff hence it is extremely important that we do some community work, positive work and that was the time when I felt if I could help even a couple of people, I would feel satisfied. That thought helped me working with various communities living on the margin in different parts of Uttar Pradesh. They became my family and relatives in real sense. Today, I am at a Mushahar basti and enjoy interacting with the community and sharing their happiness and sadness together. It releases a lot of your pain. Keeping anger in our heart cant take us anywhere hence requesting all to shed our prejudices and spread love. Don’t get stuck in the past but learn from it and move ahead. Never take your parents for granted, disagree with them, try to correct them but don’t ignore them or feel embarrassed about them even if they don’t fit in your ‘success’ or ‘class’ narrative. Uprooted from the place which I called my own but there was no space for me, the nomad in me took me everywhere, I could not have gone. My world view changed and became more inclusive. That way, my personal loss was a gain in a sense, it made me embrace people and try to learn and understand their pains and sorrows.
Vidya Bhushan Rawat
October 27th, 2024
