February 9, 2019

February 5, 2019

Over the course of the two weeks I stayed with him, I watched him begin to eat more and to begin to enjoy life more. He was like a child waiting to open a Christmas present when I bought some beer. He always had a drink in the evening around 6pm followed by dinner at 7.

“Is it 6?” He asked the first day I bought the beer.

“No, dad, it isn’t.”

He thought for a second, “what time is it?”

“4.30” time in the days of old when it was teatime in Florence Cottage, but no longer.

“How about we move up the time for a drink?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“How about 5.45?”

“5.45 it is, dad.”

The time kept getting pushed up until I opened the bottle of beer at 5!

He held his glass up to me and I held mine up to him. “God be with you. Let him hold you in the palms of his hands forever.”

His toast took me back slightly. He had never talked that way before.

“And God be with you Dad and hold you in the palms of your hands as well,” I replied finding it very easy to reciprocate.

“Lovely!” He replied after taking a gulp of Kingfisher.

I agreed. I had had over the years many an evening with my father drinking beer, but that evening was special.

“You know dad,” I said during our drink, “I light a yahrzeit candle every December 4th in honour of Mummy.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied not missing a beat.

“I’m sorry. I guess I must’ve told you.”

“No, Mummy did.” I knew there was another reason I was there.

On the third day I decided to climb up the steep road to the town of Mussoorie and purchase some food from a vegetarian restaurant. Upon my return my Dad was waiting for me, sitting on the front veranda soaking in the warm sun. We ate on the veranda. He loved the food and ate a little more than his fair share. It made me feel good. It made me smile. It was then I assured myself I would return on his 100th birthday in August. I began to come up with a plan for his birthday celebration. Yes, I would fly in my entire family from the US, even though I couldn’t afford to do that. I had the vision of his surprise as my grandchildren, his great grandchildren, ran up to him, “Poppa, Poppa,” they would shout, “Happy birthday Poppa,” we would all say as we gathered around him.

“What a lucky, lucky man,” he would reply. But for now, that would have to remain a fantasy.

“Were you close to Ronald Roach, Dad,” I asked bringing myself back to earth.

“Yes, I was. But I was much closer to Charles Boulter and Freddy Stroud,” he let out a slight laugh, “Third worst. That’s what Freddy Stroud called us third worst.”

“Why was that?”

“Just his sense of humour. Poor Ron. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and errant artillery shell killed him. He loved opera. He was a lot of fun.” And that was it. The subject was still too painful for him to talk about. Of the three of his closest war friends, Major Ronald Roach was the only one not to make it.

“You were at the Middle East Training Centre as an instructor?”

“Yes, in Palestine.”

“And then you returned to the 3/1st Punjab Regiment.”

“Yes, they were in Haifa then,” another slight laugh, “the colonel wanted to send me back to Jhelum.”

“Why was that?”

“I was a Captain and the regimental centre needed an officer of company commander rank. But by then an order had come through stating that all company commanders had to hold the rank of Major. And the colonel didn’t want to promote me.”

“But you didn’t go to Jhelum.”

“No, I told the colonel to demote me,”

“Demote you?” that annoyed me.

“Yes, ‘you want me to demote you?’ he asked stunned. Yes, I replied. ‘but why?’ he asked. so I can stay with my men.”

“And is that what happened.”

“Yes,” my father replied now getting into his war experiences with a little more gusto. “Charles was livid about it when he returned from a tour of duty at brigade headquarters. I told him that it was my choice. He threatened to go over the colonel’s head to the brigade commander but I convinced him not to.”

“Were the troops happy,”

“They were happy I stayed, but they weren’t happy I had to be demoted in order for that to happen.”

As the days went on I watched my father begin to regain his zest for life. He started to recite poetry from memory again, he began to read again, but the one thing he didn’t do was listen to his London record again. It was a record which contained the sights and sounds of his favourite city. He used to play one side in the morning and the other in the evening. Copies were made of the record as it began to wear out. It was played continuous each and every day for more than 40 years. Each member of the family had either a sight or a sound linked to them. It was his way of keeping his extended family close to him.

“Are you going back up to Mussoorie anytime soon?” He asked one morning as the two of us sat in the front veranda on a bright, sunny and warm day.

I hadn’t planned on fighting the unruly traffic, curious monkeys, packs of dogs and the occasional beggar to make the trip. But there had to be a reason he had asked, “yes dad,” I replied not wanting to disappoint him, “I’m not sure when though. Why do you ask?”

“That was very good food you brought down the other day. I was wondering if we could have a repeat.”

Absolutely! I thought to myself feeling I had achieved another small victory. “I think that’s a great idea, Dad. What would like this time? I’ll go up tomorrow.”

“Whatever you bring will be welcome,”

I stopped at the Cambridge book depot and talked to the owner whose family my family has known ever since my grandfather was the chief of police in that area in the 1930s. “How is the Brigadier?” He asked genuinely interested.

“You know he will be 100 in August.”

He folded his hands, “God bless him. Tell him we miss him. I was always assured of at least one telephone call a year from him looking for a Parker pen refill. But alas I didn’t get one from him this year.”

“Unfortunately, he is now confined to a wheelchair and doesn’t keep the same schedule any longer.”

“That must be so hard on him,” I agreed and left his shop.

The lunch crowd was begging to develop at Aggarwal’s when I made my appearance. Potatoes and peas, mushroom curry, mustard greens and spinach, chickpea curry and oh yes let’s have corn meal bread this time instead of naans. With the order placed all I had to do was sit down, sip the coke the owner gave me and watch and listen to the lunch crowd. I was invited to join a table for lunch. I was asked in Punjabi, I replied my thanks and explanation why I couldn’t in Punjabi. I don’t look Indian.

Once the food arrived I carried it down the hill past the temple with its curious and occasionally aggressive monkeys, dodged the traffic and arrived at my father’s house intact. He was siting soaking up the sunshine in the doorway of the veranda. He was waiting for me. He was hungry. I opened the many packages and soon the two of us sat and ate our lunch on the veranda in silence. I was amazed at his transformation. I had been there at this house for about a week and in that time he had gone from feeling that he no longer belonged in this world to looking forward to another day in his long life. I was so glad I was there to witness his revival. Inwardly though I have to admit I was a little afraid of how he would do once I had left.

Over the course of the time I spent with him I learnt so much about my family history. Things I had never known but more importantly I learnt that the parts of the book my daughter and I have written about him which we fictionalized because he wouldn’t talk about his war time experiences, well the truth was actually much more jaw dropping. Had I not made that journey and spent those two weeks in his constant company then neither I nor my family would have ever known the truth.

He was going to be 100 in August and I promised him I would return before then. I was grasping at straws I have to admit, I wanted to keep him alive.

But he was ready ‘to go home’ as he called it.’ “Go home to Mummy,” he told me one day on the phone. I tried hard to control my emotions, but failed miserably. And so, on the afternoon of June 19, 2019 at my sister’s house, he lay down after lunch and passed on. His last meal consisted of some Burfi and a glass of beer, his two favourite items.

He was just 2 months shy of his 100th birthday.