My Dad

My Dad

P K Routray

 

 

(1)

(Goodbye)

 

Just before his death

an hour or so prior to his last breath

in silence, prayers he poured

squatting, facing the image of the Lord

shrined in our house temple

where for the evening prayer we assemble

coming in to the shrine all on a sudden

smelling his departure within hours was certain

in the sacred month with religious spell

while praying motionless, lifeless he fell.

Thirty-six years ago on this day

departed he from his mortal stay

it was a mondya

in a holy month it is a holy day.

“ He has certainly gone to the Lord’s abode

because of the month and his prayer,” yells thus flowed

 

(2)

(His mortal stay)

 

Burdened he none.

After all he was the doctor of his own

medicating all the villages around

in him saving fathers many had found.

Before a month or two to this fateful day

to me he went to Bokaro all the way

as if he knew his end was coming near.

Far from Bokaro he was training and testing the mother

“your mother is managing well at home in my absence”.

Prophetic was his remarks then in my presence.

Losing at an early age his father

he was nurtured by his teenaged mother

veiled in the farthest corner of a multilayered house

shouldering the responsibilities of her departed spouse

in a joint family of a zamindar under British rule

poverty was hidden under the hypercritic show and misrule.

He at very young age also lost his lone elder brother

his sister-in-law and infant nephew came on his young shoulder

To a twelve-year-old girl his family got him married

shouldered he responsibilities- stupendous indeed.

a sister and a son not by birth the relation

but by the Lord’s providential direction.

to the sister he was the brother of her own

he was the father as known to the son.

Their mutual love, respect and adoration

kept everybody dark on their actual relation.

Schooling a little as an uncared child,

practicing in gym with aims wild

sparkled he at sculpture and arts as his inborn talent

He could not flourish further- It is a story poignant.

On the neck, he could bend iron rod before the public

By hairs he dragged bullock carts silencing his critic

On musical instruments his display I have seen.

Tears roll remembering the sweet tunes and the scene.

Composed he many dramas and songs for their execution

for wider fame, throttled by rural set up he published none.

His opera party flourished with youths of his locality

Directed with a few associates it had many plays in its kitty.

Later his Rupashree theater at Cuttack city made its name.

From there to Orissa Cine world Manimala, Vymokesha came.

His farming in the fields, poultry and ponds, as a boy I am the witness

The state of art technologies he implemented exhibiting his boldness

Tons and tons of brinjals and chilies were heaped on the floors.

Incurred he losses owing to lack of communication and cold stores.

Disel pumps and rice mills he owned, maintained and managed.

He was repairing them under emergency when they got damaged.

Deadly diabetes caught him at very early age

weakened him and wanes his courage

 

(3)

(Tribute)

 

 

 

A doctor, an artist, a playwright, a bodybuilder, a political leader,

a farmer, a poultry breeder, a fish breeder, a mill owner and a teacher

a producer,a director, a proprietor of an opera party and a theater,

a musician, a composer, a sculptor, a zamindar and a social; worker

all in one in a man from a rural village islanded by layers of rivers

mothered by a widowed teenager with poverty behind plenty, me it wonders.

Trained he many on vocational trades

deputing as the deputy to theexperts as theur aids.

In each field, on his feat, I can write many a story

with me, may vanish the tellers and the tales of his glory.

Remember I hazily but surely

the strength of his strong arm holding me

while taking a snap with mother and her sister

the snap preserved with love where gratitude daily we register.

He was a hard taskmaster as a teacher

Prayed I the Lord for his absence because of such fear.

Remember I for me his son his plight

while teaching me from his hand slipped the kite

over the tilled barren field his barefooted run

etched in my his love for me despite mother’s fun.

His joy and elation in my heart still adorn

which knew no bounds when my siblings were born.

His bravery I had seen in a flooding river

collecting the floating bamboos with his followers

In hot humid nights he goes to the river bed to sleep,

The fear of wolf and jackal, ghost and ghoul in him did not creep

I have felt his pains though he kept them hidden.

His exhausted frame, helpless face while crossing the hot sand,

his late night crossing a river on foot in dark in me always stand

I swear tll that was the driving force in me to try for his cheer

whether I could give him some joy or I completely failed I still fear.

His heart rendering tears I had seen when he lost his aged mother

crying like a child as if he lost his everything and his zeal to live further.

He and his brother grew on the shoulders of this widowed teenager

there was his tearful gratitude on behalf of both for their mother.

His greatness I bow at when he gave mandate to my elder brother

when my the dead body of my father- in- law was lying for the pyre

“Prasant will look after his in laws’ desolate family as their clan member

you will perform my rituals as his son to his father”

Bapa! Beg I your pardon being harsh to you because of my foolish bindings.

Now I repent and resent. In me your child seeks your love and blessings.

At a younger age of sixty-six on this day, he went to his heavenly abode

we his offspring with their mother on this day salute him, bowed.

 

 

 

(N. B - My father died thirty-seven years back on this day as per Hindu calendar In the month of Kartika the holy month while offering his ladt prayers to the lord. he was born on a remote village surrounded by rivers.he was a multi-dimensional personality but could not rise further as he could not get any opportunity. it is a tribute to him)