Our Last Leaf

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Abstract

tes of heaven are supposed to be open wide. A massive heart attack carried him away, spasming in agony in his son’s arms, and then, finally leaving us, in his grandson Ravi’s arms. His son, my brother, drove frantically to the hospital his other grandson, Hari, was a doctor in. But my father had already left us by the time the six-minute drive was up.He was 92.My sister flew down from the States, I, from Australia. My father lived with his son, my brother. My brother was my father’s friend, his nurse, his doctor, his companion, his confidante, his therapist. He resigned from a very lucrative job, to take care of my father.On the day my father passed, friends, relatives, erstwhile colleagues and acquaintances at the neighbourhood Shiva Temple poured in. They all knew and loved him. It was through their accounts that we knew of my father’s compassionate deeds. Every month, he donated money to a school that taught economically backward children. He paid for an awning all around our local temple, so worshippers would be protected from sun and rain. He gifted books to school students who

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couldn’t afford to buy them. He paid for midday meals for children. The list goes on…Was he rich? No, not in terms of money. Everything that he financed came out of his pension.But he was rich in compassion and kindness, sympathy and empathy. He had a quietly amused look in his eye: but the person he laughed at, most, was himself. “Never hurt another person,” he would tell us, “if you can’t help them, it’s fine. But never wound them in any way.”That was my father.That is my father.I could go on and on, and on, about him, and there would be still more to tell.He was the last of a generation of beautiful people: they don’t make them like him any more.ⓒ 2024 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved.For more of the good stuff, follow <a href="https://medium.com/fourth-wave">Fourth Wave</a>. Have you got a story, essay, or poem that focuses on women or other challenged groups? <a href="https://readmedium.com/submit-to-the-wave-7c92f095e86f">Submit to the Wave!</a></article></body>

An Obituary

A dry leaf hanging from a spider’s web: our house in Kerala. Photo by Suma Narayan

December was the cruelest month.

It took away many fathers. A student’s. A colleague’s. A cousin’s. A neighbour’s. …and mine.

I fill myself with platitudes. That, he was old. That quality of life deteriorates, the older one gets. That he went away peacefully. That he wouldn’t want to be around forever.

But then I remember his smile, the way he grinned with glee when a stray remark amused him, and the way he sometimes collapsed with laughter at a joke: and I weep, quietly.

My 92-year-old father, just before he passed. Photo by Suma Narayan

He left us on Vaikunta Ekadasi, the day the gates of heaven are supposed to be open wide. A massive heart attack carried him away, spasming in agony in his son’s arms, and then, finally leaving us, in his grandson Ravi’s arms. His son, my brother, drove frantically to the hospital his other grandson, Hari, was a doctor in. But my father had already left us by the time the six-minute drive was up.

He was 92.

My sister flew down from the States, I, from Australia. My father lived with his son, my brother. My brother was my father’s friend, his nurse, his doctor, his companion, his confidante, his therapist. He resigned from a very lucrative job, to take care of my father.

On the day my father passed, friends, relatives, erstwhile colleagues and acquaintances at the neighbourhood Shiva Temple poured in. They all knew and loved him. It was through their accounts that we knew of my father’s compassionate deeds. Every month, he donated money to a school that taught economically backward children. He paid for an awning all around our local temple, so worshippers would be protected from sun and rain. He gifted books to school students who couldn’t afford to buy them. He paid for midday meals for children. The list goes on…

Was he rich? No, not in terms of money. Everything that he financed came out of his pension.

But he was rich in compassion and kindness, sympathy and empathy. He had a quietly amused look in his eye: but the person he laughed at, most, was himself. “Never hurt another person,” he would tell us, “if you can’t help them, it’s fine. But never wound them in any way.”

That was my father.

That is my father.

I could go on and on, and on, about him, and there would be still more to tell.

He was the last of a generation of beautiful people: they don’t make them like him any more.

For more of the good stuff, follow Fourth Wave. Have you got a story, essay, or poem that focuses on women or other challenged groups? Submit to the Wave!