Missing a caressing hand

Just two days before Holi my wife forwarded me a greeting message. Though sent as a gesture of goodwill, the SMS reopened my healing wounds and a spontaneous four-line poem flowed instantaneously in reply –

Jisne Bhara Rang Jeevan me,

Raha Nahi jab vahi sang me,

Holi ne kho diye rang sab,

Bemani tyohar lage ab.

(Now that the one who filled colours in our lives is no more, Holi has lost all its colours and festivities have lost their sheen).

I was coming to terms with the departure of my ailing father in August last year when the message pricked my old wounds.

The party was over and a killing gloominess had descended upon me and my family. I wished I could have clinched the sand of time tightly and escaped with my dear ones to a place faraway from the glares of death. I would argue with the unseen why he did not mend his rule at least for once for the sake of his devotees like me, and spared a life from slipping into the jaws of death.

I could clearly realise that the 24 hours forming a day are not relatively the same every time- Happy hours run away so rapidly that even before you could try to take them into your grip, doom pounces upon you to knock you down.

As emotions ran high, memories played before me a bioscopic view of some festive occasions I had spent with my parents, especially with my father. I could reminisce a typical Deepawali night which taught me to enjoy silence and solitude in the middle of noisy crowd and turbulence.

I was about 13-year-old on that Deepawali night when people were out to defeat the new moon night with festoons, chandeliers and dazzling crackers. I too had great plans to celebrate the moment with a moderate stock of crackers but I could not realise that within an hour they would be exhausted. Celebrations were over and a gloomy sadness dawned upon me.

It was at that moment when I heard some Bengali songs being played somewhere quite a distance away. Though I could not hear the lyrics clearly I could make out that it was Rabindra Sangeet sung by Kishore Kumar. Distance hindered the audibility and acoustic too was a problem but the tune was surely soothing in those silent and depressing moments. The effect of the songs was such that I began to sink deep in silence and for the first time I realised the beauty of quietness and solitude in the dark new moon night from the roof of our house in Raipur. Just then someone suddenly held me by my shoulder from behind. Taken aback, I turned quickly only to find my father standing behind me.

“Baba, why are you standing alone at this dark place? Isn’t your Diwali over?” father asked me affectionately. It took little time to overcome the charm of Rabindra Sangeet. After a brief silence I said, “Appa, can you hear the song? It’s Rabindra Sangeet. It’s sweet, isn’t it?” My father too nodded.

The stroll along the memory by-lane showed me the way to solace. Thanks to internet, today I have a prized possession of a good collection of Rabindra Sangeet like, ‘Amaar Raat Pohalo’, ‘Ami Tomaay Jato Suniye chhilem Gaan’, ‘Jadi Taare Naai Cheeni Go She Kee’, ‘Amar Andhoprodeep’, ‘Purano Sei Diner Kotha’, ‘Amar Bela Je Jaaye’ and, not to miss, 'Jadi Tor Daak Sune keu Naa Aashe...’. These songs helped me wipe my tears and silenced my inner turbulence but disappeared is the person who had caressed me affectionately during some opaque and trying moments in my life and instilled a sense of security.