Thanks, Dad

My first memory of him was of him standing on the pier at Southampton waving to us as the ssCarthage docked. He was wearing a light coloured jacket and had come to receive us as we joined him…that was my father…Dad to me, Mr KN Ramanathan, Anna and other terms to the rest of the world…

For the next thirty one years we were together…there were occasions when Dad and I did not see eye to eye…like the occasion, as an eighteen year old, I wrote an article supporting legalizing abortions and Khushwant Singh published it in the Illustrated Weekly under the bye line, KR Ramanathan…and somebody called Dad to congratulate him on his progressive viewpoint...Dad had nothing for or against legalizing abortions…the only thing was that he felt that it should not be mistaken that a retired General Manager of the Press Trust of India, a leading Theosophist and a much respected senior was talking about these apparently (to him) frivolous things…so he told me, “I have nothing against what you write…please use the name Raja Ramanathan when you write in future…so that people do not think it is me writing…”

I had the bug to write very early in life…brought on by all the articles that Dorai Anna was writing…so, at age five I once scribbled the alphabet or something like that, stole money from Akka’s wallet for the postage and posted it to "the Hindu" office in London…I also enclosed a one Pound note since I had heard that one had to pay the newspapers to publish your thoughts…whoever received the letter recognized the address and called up Anna, who was the seniormost Indian journalist in London then and asked him to come and collect the note (I think one Pound wasn’t enough for them...more may have done the trick...)…he came home that evening and asked me where I got the money from…I told him, a la George Washington of cherry tree fame and others, “from Akka’s wallet”…he laughed and told Akka, “…this child wants to write that is why he stole the money…I will help him…” from then on, I would write and he taught me how to type since he told me that all articles had to be typed and I would have submit them for his review…I could type much before I could write full sentences in long hand…he also wanted me to learn shorthand, and, paid my fees several times over to achieve this, which never came to pass…nothing ever got published, till Chandy and Annie took pity on me and put my articles in "the Itinerant Indian", but, it taught me much about how to deal with a child stealing money to do something he wanted to…

Throughout his life he never disciplined me (Dorai Anna may say, “Yes. That was the problem…”)…he would always make his point, sometime forcefully, and, then move on…yet, most importantly, if you made a mistake doing it the way you thought was good, he was there to bail you out…and that was another parenting lesson I learnt, “As long as I am alive, and, this house is there, you and your family have a meal here…” he was the ultimate safe haven, a place you could go to when there were storms raging and fires burning all around…

When we learnt that his old duodenal ulcer had turned into a carcinoma, I remember praying that he would pass away without having to suffer the pain of cancer or live the indignity of being connected to tubes…I am, given my limited perspective of life and pain, happy to report that prayer was answered…he died as they were strengthening his lungs prior to fixing a date for radical surgery…he did not have to live connected to tubes…

I remember the evening, February 28, twenty eight years ago, when he was already in a coma for about twelve hours…suddenly his body heaved and Akka who was by his side, realized what was happening…breaking into tears herself, she told me to recite the Universal Prayer, written by Dr Besant, his mentor, as the breaths started slowing down and Dad moved into the great beyond...

O Hidden Life vibrant in every atom
O Hidden Light shining in every creature
O Hidden Love embracing all in oneness
May each who knows himself as
One with thee
Know he is therefore
One with every other

And that is my last memory of him…

Thanks, Dad wherever you are

PS--- Goenkaji, I am slowly beginning to sense what you mean when you say, “The debt you owe to your parents can never be paid off, however many lives you live…”