My Father.

I call him Babaji.It comes out more like baabji when I say it in my ultra quick, no time for inflection, way. But he doesn’t mind, he smiles. Or doesn’t, but I know when I’m not around, when I wasn’t around, he missed it. I know he recalled it and savored it every time it was ushered across several continents through crackling phone lines. I know his because I can hear him smile. I can hear his pride in the way he says My Son, from time to time. And the fear of his disappointment still cripples me no matter how aloof of all worldly concerns I pretend to be.
The mere idea of his passing sends me into a mental coma. I refuse to process any eventualities resulting from his demise. I cannot fathom a home without him, or a world, for that matter. He is and will always remain the one man who I know I can never be like no matter how hard I try because the extent to which he can sacrifice himself for others is well beyond my very human and therefore severely limited capacity for true greatness.
At 68 years old, he still couldn’t stop himself from doing another good turn for those he loves.
He has Angina attacks on a weekly basis but refuses to complain about his perpetual state of heart failure. He apologizes to his 32 year old daughter when she has to fetch him his potassium pills because he’s feet are crippled by diuretic induced cramps.
He gives the greatest hugs, the sense of security, of absolute safety all his children feel within his embrace is so overwhelming that it induces a sense of invincibility, of immunity from all the pain strewn across the world. And when his children suffer, as they naturally must, the dread, the shame on his face is enough to break my heart.
He’s battling for his life 7000 miles away from his home, two of his children, his bed, his domain. His self sacrifice finally took its toll in the form of a massive angina attack in a subway station, as I write this through eyes burning from sleeplessness, he lies unconscious, with a respirator busy at work, trying to keep his breathing regular. He has been unconscious for over a day now. My sister said he just looks like he’s sleeping. I hope he wakes up soon so I can ask him about the postcard from Athens from probably the love of his life sent back in 1968. So that he can hug his children again. So that I can hear him shout for me from his room upstairs to bring him his slippers from the attach bathroom. So that he can watch his favorite pushto channel with the volume so high that the neighbor’s complain.
I want my father back.
Please pray for him. I don’t care which god you believe in, just please pray for him.