My son, must I stay?

Father. 1936 - 2012

“I fear yours is no living soul.
How could it make this distant flight?
You came: the maple woods were green.
You went: the pass was black with night.”

~Du Fu / Vikram Seth

Father: 1936 – 2012

The hamartia that ruled my father’s life was his obsession for the well-being of his companion, my mother. He sired a string of offspring in quest of male progeny some of which wilted in infancy while others are withering less fancifully than he was apt to approve. The lone prize, or the son he was left with at the end of his productive years, is eking a low-key existence pigeon-holed in a swarming metro.

Mother was also the only bosom friend he ever had. He suspected many mortal maladies of laying siege on her. Seldom was a groan that escaped from her and did not send him scrambling to pathological laboratories. A lingering queasiness in her bowels warranted attentions of the best medical institutions he could afford. The paranoia was perhaps a repayment of sorts for the biennial crops she bore for him with faithful regularity.

I can tell you I was the apple of his eyes as my earliest memories are suffused with being moved around in his lap, my fingers teasing his facial contours. As soon as I could tell the moon from the stars, I was soaked with stories of different hues. But a theme that was to recur again and again was the bond of love and devotion between father and son.

As I grew in years, I became especially fond of the heart-wrenching tale of Casabianca, the twelve year old boy who held his post on a burning deck, waiting in vain in the fiery inferno for his father’s word, telling him to move away. The father, indeed, lay ten fathoms deep, oblivious of all in his eternal sleep.

More than the overwhelming sadness of the events, it used to be the emotionally charged narration that would rivet me. With a queer lilt in his tone, father would thus begin:

“The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled,
The flames that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.”

Further into the event, in a faintly cracking voice:

“The flames rolled on – he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in his death below
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud…”Say, father say
If my task is done!”

This is where a lip would quiver or a cheek would twitch:

“Speak father!” Once again he cried
“If I may yet be gone!”
And but the booming shots replied
And fast the flames roll’d on”

Father could barely speak by the time he’d come to

“My father, must I stay?”

Eventually, Casabianca perished with a “burst of thunder sound” and became one with the elements.

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Lest you begin to fear an undue callousness in me, every iteration of the tale welled my throat with waves that refused to move either way for long.

Father yearned to live the lost dreams of his life through the fumbling, recalcitrant heir. “This son of mine,” He would hold, ”is going to be a world-famous guru of Vedas, Puranas and Sanskrit scriptures.”  An emaciated but alarmingly agile tutor was soon pressed into service. For a year or so, the pundit flailed and wailed and writhed in despondence  as his efforts came to a naught.

Father changed tracks. He started paying daily visits, with me in tow, to a renowned scholar of the day whose attention he had somehow earned. He was a sharp man, Shastri ji. “Lad’s heart is not at it,” He was quick to discern.

In a desperate bid, I was admitted to a Sanskrit seminary for three long years. To cut a long story short, I emerged as unscathed and un-Sanskritised out of the whole enterprise as a slippery frog in rains.

Life rolled on. Sometime towards the end of my student life when I was pursuing a postgraduate degree in English Literature, father tried to enthuse me with the fire of becoming a Civil Servant. But, like a still-born child, I refused to budge, let alone take the first faltering step.

Crestfallen to the heart, father scoured his quiver for the proverbial last arrow. Laced with the potion of fiduciary blackmail he aimed it at me, directing me to seek a degree in Law. “I want you to roar, like a lion in the courts,” he ordained!

To be honest and truly fair, I scraped through the two-third of the course offered by the university. But, in a final act of brinkmanship, I skipped the examinations of the concluding year.

So near, and yet so far!

In one of his quintessentially whimsical ways, father decided to take up farming, once he hung up his boots on Indian Railways. But mother, with her remarkable hunger for controlling things, turned out to be a better practitioner of the art and he was soon consigned to the rear seat. In absence of a meaningful engagement, father fell upon arts as esoteric and different as astrology and homeopathy and to his credit attained certain proficiency in both. But he could never pull out of his time-tested subject of obsessing with his soulmate’s health. In fact, he received some of the commonly occurring afflictions to her so portentously, he became hypertensive and ruined his heart irrevocably.

As with most years, the bitter winter of 2012 yielded a rich crop of corpses. The crematorium at Manikarnika Ghat bustled with the dead that flocked from far and wide, and those who carried them with meaningful strides, uttering all the way, “This alone is the truth!” Those who burnt and beat the dead to extract a living had a roaring business. Tourists from lands far away loitered with mouths agape and faces flush.

Pyres after pyres were set in such unholy proximity that the dead would nudge each other back to life, if they could. I carefully counted the station of the one I had set aflame and returned to a deck above to watch  the danse macabre amidst the soot, smoke and smouldering stench.

The eyes, perchance, lingered on other pyres too as I stood there half-dazed. Nothing could have underscored the evanescence of life more emphatically than the charred human forms that stiffened in vain to escape the fury of fire. My eyes returned to the mound I had marked to recognize in a flash the unmistakable skull of my father through the gaps in burning logs. His face came rushing to the mind in that instant, bearing various emotions: the face as it had grinned and grimaced, the face as it had kissed and craved, the face lost in deep thoughts, the face singing a poem, and the face as it would shake again and again in some untold remonstrance.

“My son, must I stay?”



  1. That was gut wrenching my friend. The pain and the anguish all come through in the words soaked in grief. May his soul rest in peace.

  2. That was very emotional. May his soul rest in peace. May god give you strength to bear this loss.

  3. deeply moved by this master piece from a emotional son about the relationship with his father , expectations and desires of the father and angush over diffrences . Pandey is one of the persons who can be honest even upto extreme .

  4. Heart -tearing. Masterpiece. Left me alone , lurching in darkness . Hats- off to your heart , to your pen , above all to your honesty .
    May God give you strength to bear this inevitable macabre experience of life .

  5. A very somber tribute! May his soul rest in peace! For some strange reason, the poem of Casabianca kept playing in my mind today morning, and strangely I find it here verbatim in your moving post!

  6. After I lost my father, your blog brought me to peace and I finally let my father go.

  7. this was a deeply moving narration. from the light-hearted note with which you began the post to the shift in the tone as we went on along with Casabianca & then to the your own touching story of the father & son

  8. Sad to see this news Uma! Death is just too final but the soothing touch will come with all the wonderful memories & stories that you will share with your family over the coming years.
    You are a great narrator.

  9. A stunning piece of heartfelt prose US; not least, the link with the poem & the closing quote.

    One line in particular – I feel – is a touch of genius: `…Manikarnika Ghat bustled with the dead that flocked from far and wide…’

    I hope your father got to read some of your magnificent & magical tales US. I’m sure he would be so proud – captivated with your skill – as I & most of your readers certainly are.
    Cheers, ic

    1. Ian, that is one ancient, holy and, I wish to add, nasty crematorium. Standing there is a humbling experience any day, and a heart-rending one, if one’s father were to be part of the ongoing hellfire.

      I did give my father a printout of one of my stories once. He said I had a golden pen that I should never lose. But then a father would say that to his son.

      Thanks for those words.

  10. I am glad you had the fortitude to resist law. You are far better suited as a writer.

    This was a poignant and touching account of your memories. Thank you…

  11. you poured your heart out Sir..
    I felt the pain, agony and helplessness of a boy who is confused and dazed.. looking desperately for that familiar touch which is lost.. lost for forever

    truly sorry for your loss.

  12. This was such a poetic tribute to your father, Uma. He wanted what he thought was best for you. Perhaps your inner resolve to do what makes you happy now (writing) is related to having dodged all of his vocational suggestions (mandates?) over the years. The way in which the tale of Casablanca symbolized you and your father’s relationship, both literally and figuratively, is chilling. Thanks for sharing this heartfelt piece.

    1. Kris, I was in a bad shape when I wrote that, recalling my earliest memories and the later day conflicts with him. There is no doubt that I kept failing him perennially.

      That was sensitive of you to notice that chilling recall of the filial story, in an ironic reversal.

      Thank you for your kindness.

  13. You laid bare your heart in that piece – written with feeling; it’s evident that you loved your dad and looked up to him.

    I realised the value of my dad after he had left this world – wished I had spent more time with him and asked him more about his life. I know so little about him and that is a huge loss.

    The last part of your narrative was gut-wrenching like another reader already mentioned. I have lit the funeral pyre for my dad too but didn’t have to bear witness to what happened afterwards. Why did you put yourself through that agony? It must have been very painful.

    I am sure you are a great dad too!

    1. Who was it that said that wisdom comes a bit too late to be of any good.

      No one forced me to stay in sight of the burning pyre of my father, but it was the last that I would see him ever…. Maybe it was a penance for the disappointments I kept throwing at him all his life.

      As for being a great dad myself, well, I hope I am!

      Thank you for those kind words, my friend.

  14. Such powerful writing, uma, especially the fiery conclusion. I sense a terrific bond between you and your father. Naturally you had to go your own way, choose your own destiny, disappoint all his plans and expectations. But what father doesn’t love a rebellious son.

    1. NP, what was once a bond, is now a bundle of memories. I guess my father fumbled because he believed he had a tiger in his son rather than the kitten I was. Many, many thanks.

  15. Umashankar, this piece is so powerfully and beautifully written! Your father was very endearing in “his quintessentially whimsical ways” and I find it fascinating that after retiring he became proficient in astrology and homeopathy. All that hovering over your mother was really very loving, and I could tell you felt very loved by him too. That’s a wonderful photo of your father, what a wide-open, happy face, looking at him smiling made me smile.

    Seems he was quite the storyteller, the way he relayed the heart-wrenching tale of Casabianca. I am wondering if your love for storytelling and writing began back then listening to those tales. The way you came back to the Casabianca story at the end with the funeral pyre, your father’s face in all his expressions, and “my son, must I stay,” brought tears to my eyes. Well done and thank you for sharing.

    1. Madilyn, you did read a lot between the lines. He was both quaint and whimsical, and his love was deep. He was an untiring raconteur of folktales and scriptures. It does seem to have had an effect on me, just as you say!

      Thank you for those kind words.

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