Finally, this Saturday past, my father breathed his last. After a month of absolute misery, lying listlessly in bed, unable to do anything by himself. I hope he is now happy doing exactly what he wants.

Because, my dad was one lucky bloke. Most of his life he managed to do just what he wanted. He was quiet and seemed non-confrontational but he stubbornly refused to do what he didn’t want to do and if absolutely forced to do something he didn’t want to do, did with utmost reluctance.

He had the curiosity of a child and was always ready to try something new no matter how ridiculous it might seem to others.

For instance, I remember way back in the 60s he decided to learn Ballroom dancing. This was because all his other Naval friends danced so beautifully and he, being a doctor, didn’t have access to dance lessons which were part of training imparted to future officers and gentlemen. So he bought himself ‘Teach yourself Ballroom Dancing’ and some records to spin on his brand new Grundig record player. For months after that, he would twirl my mother around the wooden floors of our living room, while he counted the steps book in hand!

Perhaps, it was the record player that inspired him to learn Spanish. Because for the next few months we had to tiptoe in silence while he practiced his conversational Spanish to ‘Teach Yourself Spanish’ !

Every now and then, something would catch his fancy. Sometimes the interest was short lived. Like the time he went to Auli for ski lessons in his mid-50s or to Holland to learn mushroom cultivation. In time, he took up pottery, orchid cultivation and hydroponics. With each ‘hobby’ the house grew messier and messier but he carried on regardless.

But the one hobby that turned into his great love and lasted him all his life was GOLF.

I remember him coming home after six months in the North East, with a strange piece of luggage – a tall leather case which held some funny looking sticks.

Even though he started playing golf in his late 30s he was determined to become a champion. Our living room carpet became his putting green and our bookshelves began filling up with books on how to improve your swing and advice from several experts. Soon our front table catch-all conveniently became a receptacle for tees and balls.

He would participate in every tournament he could and woke up at the crack of dawn on weekends just so that his four-ball would be the first to tee-off.

Initially my mum resented this game that completely took over his life and disrupted ours. But eventually she began enjoying the hours of peace while he was away and actually began resenting the course shut-downs during the monsoon rains.

This was because my dad’s other passion was giving my mum the run around. She was willing to do anything for him and literally jumped to attention when she heard him call out her name.

Growing up, it was common for us to hear her name being yelled out while my mother dropped whatever it was she was doing and ran to do his bidding. So she did his bank work, packed houses while he moved on to a new town for his next post, got us school admissions, ferried us for various classes and activities , took us for medical checks etc, and almost single handedly managed the household. And despite all her own personal activities ( she was a school teacher) she never forgot that HE was her number one priority.

At the beginning of this year, the Golf Club banned him from bringing the buggy upto the Practice greens. It would spoil the turf they said. Notwithstanding the fact that he could barely walk with the intense pain in his legs, he was upset. This was bad news. As it was, his four ball was dying on him one by one and he literally remained the last one standing at 93.

Another blow was the discovery of a GBM growing in my mum’s brain. We had suspected something odd in her behaviour but put it down to the onset of dementia. Yet, she continued with her early morning breakfast routine for him which began with a 6 am tea. Then she ironed his underwear and laid it out with the rest of his clothes to step into after his bath, on his bed. While he read the paper, she busied herself in the kitchen trying to organise his meals before getting ready to do her daily chores ( which ALWAYS included some errands for him).

So when the tumour showed up, it literally sent his life for a toss. During my mum’s illness, he did little to humour her and after she passed, decided that life was not worth living.

Despite a heart attack in 2017 slowing him down, he continued with his Golf and occasional social visits. But after my mum, he completely withdrew into his own world. Of course he spoke to those who spoke to him and did go out for the occasional outing. But gradually, he began losing interest in everything that he once liked to do. No more newspapers, no feeding the birds, no yelling at his gardeners and no wife to really boss around.

After, two brief most reluctant hospitalisations over the last two months, he went peacefully in his sleep. In his own bed. In his own home . Just the way he wanted. He has now joined my mother in the last photograph they were seen together.

Farewell, dear daddy. Hope you finally get the Hole in One , have a single digit handicap and munch on your crisp buttered toast while my mother hovers around you .

Ciao