RIP – BKB. It has been an year. 25 June 2016

(this short piece was written on 22 March 2015, when Pitaji was under treatment at a hospital in Delhi)

It is like I have been assigned to watch over the most fragile part of our ecosystem. The ecosystem called a family, whose patriarch is lying here for past 11 days, not in pain but not at peace either. In this well provided room of a star hospital, the body is at the mercy of doctors while the soul at that of God. In their own territories, the two, challenging the supremacy of the other.
A twitch of his swollen lips is the only sign of his response to my presence that I see as I whisper the name of a popular Hindi film in his ear which he had so professionally produced some three decades back. His eyes balls move under the lids shut tight, the life force exerting its presence.
The medical attendant leaves the room for ‘breakfast’, shutting the door so hard that it sent tremors down the corridor and suddenly the man on the bed shakes his left hand and foot involuntarily. Standing next to the bed I massage his limp right foot, even tickling the sole, as he opens his toothless mouth to yawn… a big yawn of the man who wants to brush aside the slumber to get up and get back to the business of life.
He is breathing hard now, mouth open, his tongue deep red, with remnants of medication. This time I speak loud – squeezing his right hand with which he tries to hold the handle bar on the bed – I call out “Pitaji, get up, let us go home”. For a few seconds his eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and then he turns his face away from me. I run to the other side of the bed coming in between his line of vision, tapping his cheek I wave the bright red medicine box in front of him – only to find his glazed eyes looking through me.