Ode to that handsome man

Everything that happened on the morning of May 5, 2004, is so evocative. The early morning call, rushing to the hospital, returning home, and his coming home one last time. It was a sunny day but nothing was bright about it. We lost our patriarch. 

To the world, he was ‘Daktarbabu’ the charismatic man of the lean frame, dressed impeccably in a pair of crisp white dhoti, voile kurta and rimmed glasses, waiting to attend a beeline of patients even on a Sunday morning. To us, he was simply our Dadubhai, the strict disciplinarian who would not let us sleep past 7 am even on vacations and Sunday mornings and who would chide us for watching ‘Hindustani’ movies and shows over Bangla. He is the reason we were forced to eat everything put on the plate (much later in life I realized its importance) and the reason we had a fixed summer vacation to West Bengal in a troop of nothing less than 20 people! My parents say I am brave enough to move to another country all alone to pursue my dreams. When I remember how my grandfather, barely out of his teens, did the same in another century, an era when channels of communication were almost non-existent, I realize how minuscule any of my achievements will ever be. 

I remember him every day, a little more on the 5th of May and I wish he was here; to gift us new clothes on Durga Puja, to return home with ‘pakodas’ in winter, for us, to give me a few pieces of hajmolas from his pharmacy every time we got the opportunity to drop by, to reprimand us for not following a disciplined life, and of course, for inspiring us to be like him, a man so vigorous and passionate about everything he did. 

I do not have many photographs of his. Of the few I do, this remains my favourite. Among the many hats he donned, one of that was of a Jatra artiste and I thought it was befitting the world to see how gracious, poised, and elegant he could look when playing a queen.