Missing one's father-in Heaven! Alas Bau Ji !

Bau Ji

by Rajbir Deswal

Bau Ji was an ordinary person. But he was a special father. I had never thought of addressing him in ‘historical terms of having had been!’ Not that he was immortal, but that he was mortally alive and succumbing to all my needs, all my life, made me look up to him being more than a father. And having brought me in this world, who else could have done this to me except him! Bau Ji. My father.

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As a boy, I saw in Bau Ji all that I could have dreamed to be. As an adolescent, I found him affording me all support I needed. As an adult, I discovered in him an indulgent counsellor. As a man, I had him as my spiritual guru. But more he grew old and infirm, he became a child. Dependent. Emotional. Needing to be repaid for what I owed him. Without asking for it.

He was my role model. His upbringing made me follow only him. Being his natural part. If he liked Nehru or Churchill, I too liked them. If he adored Dilip Kumar’s style of acting and Talat Mehmood’s velvety voice, I too rooted for them the same way. If he preferred to dress immaculately, I too would not let a crease on my clothes get crumpled.

I followed Bau Ji even in his initiation into a faith of his choice at the hands of his spiritual master. I heard him compose verses and sing them to small congregations in our village. He made me sing and write like him. His love for Urdu and good English was duly imbibed and emulated by me. He was a graduate of the 1940s vintage.

Bau Ji was a true son of the soil. I remember him carrying me as a child on his broad shoulders. Having grown up a little more, I started accompanying father on his tractor to the fields. I would marvel at his sinewy arms with jet black hair down the elbow.

Noticing a water channel overflow, father would stop the tractor, come down, roll up his sleeves, pick up the spade and divert the water. I watched his biceps and triceps almost frog-throbbing now and then with the lifting and dropping of the spade into hard soil.

With mother having parted company forever about 24 years ago, Bau Ji became a loner, more by choice than by disposition. He became hypertensive, diabetic, and spondylitis literally took the better of him and his upright posture. The hair on his hands turned white and the skin got loosened; sans the rugged texture it once had.

Early this month, Bau Ji called up almost gasping for breath on the phone: “I am not well, Bhai!” He had never uttered such words of helplessness — ever! It did not portend well. We took him with us. That night I slept (!) with him when he kept asking the domestic help to ‘go and relax’ but confirming about me, “Bhai, are you around?” His condition deteriorated the next day and till late evening, he could not hang on. Bau Ji was gone. For ever.

On the way to Hardwar, while carrying his ashes to be immersed in the Ganga, I received a call from his mobile left back in the village. The text which appeared on my phone-screen read, “Bau Ji calling!” For a second I preferred not to suspend my disbelief and keep feeling Bau Ji’s presence around. You were very special to me, Father! Like all fathers, I believe.