The month of June always brings back memories of my father. It was in this month that he passed away. The date was 28th June, 1970. I was then 29 years old (he was 73) and working in a paper mill a thousand odd kilometres away from Delhi, where my parents stayed. As luck would have it, my wife and I had just left Delhi after spending my vacation with our parents. We took a train out of Delhi on 24th or 25th June. My father had insisted on coming to the station to see us off. I still remember him standing next to the train in a sweat-soaked white ‘bush’ shirt and trousers. The temperature must have been well above 40 C. It was about three in the afternoon and blazing hot under the asbestos roof of the station platform. I remember him standing there and squinting at the distant signal to see if it had turned green. He had, of course, insisted that my wife and I board the train well before departure time. My in-laws and my father stood on the platform till the train departed. He waived in our general direction as the train moved out. That was the last time I saw him.
Back at my paper mill in Rajahmundry, Andhra Pradesh, I was in the morning shift when one of my bosses came and told me that I had to go home immediately. In fact, he insisted on accompanying me to my house. There I found my weeping wife and a whole lot of neighbours. The news of my father’s death was broken to me in what was supposed to be a gentle manner by one of them. Someone handed me the telegram received from my uncle. It simply said, ‘Kshirodbabu expired’. It took a while to sink in. I remember there was no immediate reaction, especially before all those people. My head was in a whirl. Then my practical nature asserted itself and I got busy making arrangements for going to Delhi. My wife and I tried to catch a flight at Vijaywada airport for Hyderabad and a connecting flight to Delhi. It was not to be. We missed the flight at Vijaywada and saw the plane taxiing off as we entered the airport area. We then drove through the night to Hyderabad (it was raining madly) and caught the morning flight to Delhi – but that is another story.
Somehow, as I grow older, I remember my father more and more, especially in the month of June. I go back to that railway platform of New Delhi Railway Station on that burning afternoon in 1970 and see him in my mind’s eye, standing there with one arm raised in a last farewell.
Back at my paper mill in Rajahmundry, Andhra Pradesh, I was in the morning shift when one of my bosses came and told me that I had to go home immediately. In fact, he insisted on accompanying me to my house. There I found my weeping wife and a whole lot of neighbours. The news of my father’s death was broken to me in what was supposed to be a gentle manner by one of them. Someone handed me the telegram received from my uncle. It simply said, ‘Kshirodbabu expired’. It took a while to sink in. I remember there was no immediate reaction, especially before all those people. My head was in a whirl. Then my practical nature asserted itself and I got busy making arrangements for going to Delhi. My wife and I tried to catch a flight at Vijaywada airport for Hyderabad and a connecting flight to Delhi. It was not to be. We missed the flight at Vijaywada and saw the plane taxiing off as we entered the airport area. We then drove through the night to Hyderabad (it was raining madly) and caught the morning flight to Delhi – but that is another story.
Somehow, as I grow older, I remember my father more and more, especially in the month of June. I go back to that railway platform of New Delhi Railway Station on that burning afternoon in 1970 and see him in my mind’s eye, standing there with one arm raised in a last farewell.
