My father

He broke his right femur bone in July. After a successful operation involving a steel rod and a couple of screws to hold his leg joint, he was brought home on a stretcher, and recovery began with a regular dose of physiotherapy, medicine (incl. pain killers), and surgical tape. A week later, I flew down to be with him in his recovery for three weeks.

This was one of many accidents he had over the years, especially in the last five. And every one of these made him weaker, vulnerable, and prone to accidents resulting in bouts of neurological challenges, days in coma, hand and leg fractures, increased sugar levels, and so on.

While he did recover from all these and also remarkably regained cognitive abilities, being bed-ridden due to the latest incident, his heart was not in carrying-on in the state he found himself in. And so he began pulling away from physiotherapy, food and drink, and finally also began refusing medicine. Finally, on the morning of 28 August, he passed away in his sleep. He was 84.

I was in the middle of something when I heard the news. I rushed home, booked tickets assisted by my younger one, and boarded the first available flight home. My explicit instructions to the family were to not wait for me for the last rites, and that he be cremated ASAP.

Yesterday was memorial lunch attended by the extended family, friends, colleagues, and neighbours.

A self-made man, a smiling face, of good standing, simplicity and plain-speak, always eager and ready to help, is now gone. I will miss him.