My father
gave me a very special gift, a present handed down through the generations, and
it took me years to realize it.
My father
had an enormous passion for writing. His works now lie scattered across Dooars,
the place he loved with all his heart. He wrote of the blues hills and the pristine
rivers. The carpet of tea plantations covering the land and the joys and
sorrows of its people. He spoke of life, love, pains, and celebrations.
I looked up
to him when I wrote my first verse decades ago.
My father’s
words shaped lives yet managed to outlive the man himself.
On this
day, eleven years ago, he quietly slipped away, the notebook open and the pen
sitting idly on his study desk. My father left behind a room full of books and
unfinished works and a massive hole in our lives.
I have long
believed that everything I have written since has been meaningless. All my
efforts, wasted, because he would never read them. My father would never let out
a disappointed sigh upon identifying an error in the first draft of my piece.
He would never carefully rectify the mistakes in my paragraphs. He would never
flaunt an approving smile when my efforts match his expectations.
What was
the use, then, to continue? To go on, knowing very well that all I write would
inherently remain incomplete? Because the man who inspired me to pick up the
pen could no longer sit on his armchair and go through them.
But life is
more than a bucket of grief. And Time, well, yeah, Time does have her moments.
Through
these years, I strived on, often reluctantly, with my love of writing lingering
around in the backdrop. I never pushed it away, it never left my side. It took
me a while before I finally realized that this desire to write was a gift he had
so lovingly bestowed on me.
His passion
for writing. Wrapped in glossy paper and addressed to me.
Now when I
sit down in the evenings, arranging and rearranging words, I feel a surreal
attachment to him. We are two souls who have transcended the boundaries of life
and death, unified by the love of writing.
I imagine his
presence by my side, reading every paragraph I type, every sentence I write.
Every word lingering in the back of my mind. Sometimes I imagine his hand on my
shoulder, an encouraging pat, a disapproving tap. I find him in my thoughts, in
my words, at the tip of my fingers.
And so I
continue this tryst with words, carefully nurturing this gift I received from
my father. I preserve it, protect it and allow it to shape my life. I dream of
perfecting it one fine day in a not-so-distant future. And I hope someday, I
too can hand it down and help my son realize the legacy of his grandfather.
You live in us, Baba, and as long as I continue writing, you live in me.
