Bringing up father

If dad was around we would have celebrated his 85th birthday on 5th February. We lost him on 18th May 2001 but in the last 8 years not a day has passed when I have not thought about him. He was great fun to be with, always had something interesting to tell as there was not a dull moment in his life. An activist journalist having experienced a great deal in his personal and professional life, he stood by his convictions and lived on his own terms.

Bringing up father
“When will your father grow up”, was mom’s constant complaint. But much to our delight and later the grandchildren’s he never really did.

Ofcourse, the process of ‘spoiling him silly’ was initiated by my ‘dadi’. Born the eldest son in a family of eight children he was indulged and pampered. Moreover, his father spent long periods away from home during the freedom struggle. Thus, in his early years of childhood his widowed childless uncle took care of the family. “He refused us nothing,” dad would say.

Interestingly, there were no sibling rivalries. My Uncle Kamal admits quite willingly that “Bade Bhaiya, was amma’s favourite. He says, “We were happy to run errands for him. I would clean up his room, and even get his clothes from the dhobi. Amma would cook special dishes on Sunday and allow him to buy his favourite magazine, The Illustrated Weekly.”

At the age of nineteen, dad had picked up his first job in a local newspaper in Lucknow. “Life had become tough for the family, there was no earning member and your uncles and aunt were still in school. I had just finished college but there was no choice,” I remember dad telling us. Later in his life he had the satisfaction that each one of them excelled in their chosen careers.

By the mid-fifty’s dad had moved to Delhi and got a job with a British news agency. That was a providential break. He got a lot of exposure and a good many opportunities to travel abroad. His British boss, Mr. Howe treated him like a son. Mrs. Howe was a cookery expert and would often call-up and say, “Prakash, come over and try out this continental dish”. She knew he relished her cooking. And dad continued getting indulged.

I remember, as a 3-year-old, running for his slippers and his copy of London’s Daily Express, when he came home. Gradually, I guess, I had taken over my Uncle Kamal’s place in his life. When I worked with him at the Press Foundation Asia, bureau my first question to him every morning was, “Dad what have we lost today?” Invariably it was a clipping he had cut from the newspaper or a particular report he had been reading the night before. Putting his clippings in order, was a task I dreaded the most in the 15 years I worked with him.

However, the most hilarious incident was when he summoned the local cable TV guy and told him to fix the MTV channel on his TV set. The guy looked aghast at my 75-year-old dad when he was told, “I don’t want to miss my favourite show – ‘MTV Bakra’.” He loved to listen to Eric Clapton and Elton John with his granddaughters and go over with them to McDonalds for a cup of coffee and French fries.

After he retired, once a week, we met in my house. I helped him with his political column, and we had lunch together. On one such afternoon, when he was leaving, I slipped a large piece of his favourite Swiss chocolate in his pocket. He smirked mischievously and patted his pocket. That was the last time I saw him alive. We lost him the following mid-night. He went quietly just like a child.