ESL Blogs

Father’s Death

The moment I took that horrible great jump , I deployed death to swallow my father. Death, the giant black cobra, swallowed him secretly but slowly , bit by bit.

The pain that was printed on his sad ashen face while he was being swallowed finally , was the result of my heartlessness ?
My irresponsibility?
Or his own guilty feeling of being irresponsible ?
I slowly walked away while he was being swallowed. I went to my room. I sat silently and felt nothing. I wanted to cry but found my heart as hard as stone. NO emotion welled up. My tears were as dry as dust.
Suddenly , I heard the shrill of cry. And I knew, my father's clock had slowed down to zero. Permanently.
I was waiting for that.
A woman came near me and stood afar. She came to officially inform me of my father's death.
" My poor boy !" she wiped her tears. "Your father has passed away leaving you orphan ! But you must be strong and take it easy. You've so many things to do , so many responsibilities ! Go, inform your relatives. Burial must not be delayed. "
she left to join the mourning.
But I kept sitting motionless.

Responsibility !
Oh the bloody responsibility !
What I avoided in all my life , I decided to avoid again because my father's death was as normal as my taking pee.
I logically explained.
Some bloody rituals with dead bodies! Meaningless. And I had nothing to do with it.
I remained as usual , mad , as I always had been considered.

When my father died , my empty pocket days were going on.
I had given up taking tea two years before. Even , I had given up smoking cigarette before that. So virtually I didn't need any money except for shaving. Even , that was not in a salon. I had to buy the cheapest blade 'balaka' and shave at home. So , two taka a month was more than enough for me. And that two taka I used to get from my little sister. I was grateful for that , not only for that , for my life as well, for keeping me alive.
I was empty but the shroud for the dead body must be bought.
Some one like an untie dared to come near me.
"Give money for buying the shroud. Strangers must not buy your father's shroud."
My whole body turned as hard as stone again and my eyes stared far at the distance ,at a man riding bicycle.
Untie like woman pulled me by hand.
"can you hear me? Someone must not buy your father's shroud. Can you hear me, mad ?"

My little sister came forward again to rescue.
"leave him alone. Here's the money. "
I looked at the note. It was a five hundred taka note. I wondered, from where she got it. I knew she was empty too. In the morning she wasn't able to buy fish and vegetables. Once again I became grateful to my little sister. But things were pretty bad when I refused to wash the dead body. They wanted to beat me. And they would have if it hadn't been my father's death day.

The bicycle man came directly without taking his bath and lunch. He correctly sensed the emergency of the situation.
A nice man.
When I called him (my sixth sense was probably working and guessed some problems), he was at loss to hear my father's death.
"what ! I saw him alive in the morning !"
The bicycle man looked sad and sympathetic. He silently handed over the money.
Six thousand !
"slaughter him after three days , on Tuesday. "
"okay "
He agreed and left silently.

I had finally sold the palm tree that grew up along with my father , and bore many memories.
Another destructive action.
I felt like I was the supreme boss , I could make any decision.

There was none to protest.
My little sister was crying convulsively and wouldn't know.
My mother was senseless and wouldn't know.
So it was easy. Besides , the situation demanded it.
A few days ago , I slapped my little sister because she wouldn't let me sell.
Not the palm tree.
Not the brick that was bought for making home.
My little sister turned the most adamant little bitch who wouldn't understand my problem anymore.
"I've sacrificed everything for you. My life my ornaments - everything - I'll not let you sell this time "
I grew furious and slapped her , punched her mercilessly. I could've killed her if my mother hadn't grabbed my legs and begged her life.
My father was not near. Besides , he was old and could not hear. He had partly lost his hearing power.

Three days later, my little sister agreed to sell the brick.
So, when the bicycle man came in the morning , I refused to sell the tree.
No, I couldn't destroy the memory. The bicycle man left but I kept his mobile number. In case ...

I was standing afar from the curious, sad looking crowd.
All alone.

A mad ,senseless , heartless young man.
A kafir, an athiest  and the target of many curious eyes.
Eyes that cast hatred.
Eyes that turn sad.

My father was being washed and bathed. His first bath was by someone else, most probably by his mother or gran or ...His last bath was also by someone else.
Strange.
At his first bath he was alive and could feel. Unfortunately ,at his last bath he was lifeless and couldn't feel.
Strange.
Saris (my mother's )were used to hide the bathing place.
What !
Why this secrecy ?
I wondered. Then I hated to realize that my father would be made naked. Some bloody people would watch him naked ,touch him , wash him naked.
I just couldn't imagine.
Suddenly I wanted to shout , to scream ,"stop this bloody game, you idiot . Just bury him. "
I wanted to scream but I couldn't.
Naked comes , naked goes and naked will resurrect.
Why ?
Why this funny trick ?
I was getting mad again.
Suddenly there was a whisper in the air.

"The shroud has fallen short. "
A very bad sign for the dead.
And the crowd looked scared.
"What a wretched ! What a sinner !"
They started to repent.
Suddenly I found my old confident back. I took some resolute steps. I pulled out a five hundred taka note.
"Buy the shroud again. " I ordered some uncle like man. "and keep the rest. "
Yes , I had always been careless about money.
I tipped the waiters without counting.
I gave alms without counting. Money became restless and wouldn't like to stay in my pocket.
And someone would starve back at home. Sometimes ,I myself.
And for the same reason.

It was chilly January afternoon. Rough wind was blowing. And the air was wet with mist and fog.
While everyone was shivering in spite of putting on warm clothes , I had just my usual dress on.
Blue jeans and faded ash grey T - shirt.
For the last three years I was not putting on any warm clothes. I just wanted to feel the winter.
And not putting on any warm clothes in the winter was another obvious symbol of my madness. And I had to suffer some odd look.

Anyway , I was wandering through the mourners , putting my two worthless hands in my jeans pockets. I was reflecting the whole scene with my father in the morning.
We had our breakfast and then we stood by the palm tree. Just basking in the sun. Silently.

As my father couldn't hear (I had doubt and thought that he was pretending just to avoid quarrel ), I had to write short notes and pass if I wanted to have a talk. After reading the note father would talk to me very affectionately.

In the morning I didn't pass any note. I was just playing with his hand and feeling the warmth between us. A meaningless attempt to heal the injury I had done over the years. My father used to understand me better. So he didn't mind my madness. He was just sad and helpless and worried about my future. But recently he looked very calm and quiet. Especially this morning. He looked like a saint who had mingled himself with the identity of god. He had been practicing spiritualism now a days. He concentrated so much so that often he used to forget everything around him.
He developed this special way to forget his pain.

He couldn't hear but he could speak. Suddenly he spoke very affectionately to me.
"You want to sell the palm tree ?"
He asked me softly.
I nodded my head.
"How much is the price ?"
I had to use my finger to show six.

sell it "
And then he became silent again.

The poison of my great jump was killing my father inwardly. His live cells were being destroyed. His spirit was being weakened.

Insufficient food , medicare and the frustration of being unable to give his daughter marriage were killing him slowly ...slowly ...

At first he was really curious to read my notes and tried to follow. Auto suggestions . To keep well and live long.
But gradually he lost interest. Without reading he started to keep them aside. He thought them meaningless.

I was his light to show the way out. When he found it blown out , he became afraid. He would look at me , the darkness, helplessly and foolishly.

So the sweet words and playing with his fingers wouldn't heal the injury , instead , it would fester.

Every touch of my cursed fingers (it didn't matter how much love I transmitted ) was pushing him towards the door of death.

He was not taking bath for days. His dresses (lungi and a thin wrapper - under it jumpers - one ,two ,three ,four ...) were getting dirty. And he smelt badly. Often he was seen basking by the fire (when my mother used to cook ) or in the sun. He was feeling so cold...

Mother and I decided to bathe him. To make him fresh and clean.
Mother got water ready. Lukewarm.
After returning from the madrasha (where I had been recruited as lecturer some three years ago but I was not working and would not

sell it "
And then he became silent again.

The poison of my great jump was killing my father inwardly. His live cells were being destroyed. His spirit was being weakened.

Insufficient food , medicare and the frustration of being unable to give his daughter marriage were killing him slowly ...slowly ...

At first he was really curious to read my notes and tried to follow. Auto suggestions . To keep well and live long.
But gradually he lost interest. Without reading he started to keep them aside. He thought them meaningless.

I was his light to show the way out. When he found it blown out , he became afraid. He would look at me , the darkness, helplessly and foolishly.

So the sweet words and playing with his fingers wouldn't heal the injury , instead , it would fester.

Every touch of my cursed fingers (it didn't matter how much love I transmitted ) was pushing him towards the door of death.

He was not taking bath for days. His dresses (lungi and a thin wrapper - under it jumpers - one ,two ,three ,four ...) were getting dirty. And he smelt badly. Often he was seen basking by the fire (when my mother used to cook ) or in the sun. He was feeling so cold...

Mother and I decided to bathe him. To make him fresh and clean.
Mother got water ready. Lukewarm.
After returning from the madrasha (where I had been recruited as lecturer some three years ago but I was not working and would not

work. I went there to meet a friend ) I went to my father.
He was basking in the sun.
The luke warm water was ready.
I wanted to take off his dirty clothes but he protested. No, he wouldn't take the bath.
He was feeling so cold...
I went on hard line. I became unreasonable as my father had been with me when I was a little kid and was not listening to him. Fatherly love.
I was taking off his dirty clothes in spite of his protest "I'll die , I'll die. "
My mother protested too. "don't insist "
I didn't care and father threw off his clothes in anger.

I couldn't believe my own eyes. He was just a living skeleton. I took him in my irresponsible arms. He was so light ...
I put him in the sun. He was squatting. I was cheerful. Mother was bringing water.

Suddenly, with a violent jerk , father fell down.

Immediately I dropped down to my knee. I struggled madly to pull my father into a sitting position. But he was squirming in my arms as if he had been slaughtered like a goat throwing arms and legs.

Mother rushed to the spot. She looked at me in such a way that held me responsible for my father's fall.
"If you hadn't..." she kept saying again and again. She was in a frenzy and not sure what to do. Then she ran to the room. In a second she was back with a pillow , mat and coverlet. In a second father was under the coverlet and mother was rubbing his hands and feet with mastered oil.
When I was pumping oxygen through his nose to his lungs, mother hurried to call in some neighbour. I was alone with my father and with trembling uncontrolled voice I started to give him auto suggestions putting my mouth into his ear.
" Baba, nothing has happened to you. You've just fallen down and now sleeping. Baba, we're waiting for you. Just wake up. I want to see you taking your bath. We'll bask in the sun. We'll walk on the river bank. Just wake up. Baba, you're a strong man , use your will force. Your will power is the strongest. You know you're a winner. Nothing can beat you. Baba, you cannot leave us like this making us helpless orphan. Mother is weeping. Just wake up. You've a huge responsibility to do , a long way to go - you promised me two more years. Just wake up to see you're giving your daughter marriage ... You must wake up to see my wife and son. You know you've that power. Just use your will force. Prove you can do it. Nothing is impossible ,come back. We'll do a lot of things together ..."
"What are you doing ?"
Some one asked me and I looked up.
There were a lot of people watching me. Men ,women ,children. They were really curious to see.
I stood up, a little confused.
Then suddenly I was running. Running as fast as I could. To call in a doctor. On the way something was pulling me back. My subconscious mind ?

Might be.
"Worthless running. Just go back to your father. He's dying. "

the doctor felt the pulse , measured the pressure and stood up. His face was expressionless.
"give him some milk. I'll be back in an hour, "
I knew he was leaving and wouldn't be back.

Was reciting surah was better than my auto Suggestions ?
Some one had suggested giving 'kalima' to my father's ears instead while I was giving auto Suggestion. I had looked up like a mad dog. Could I do that ?Definitely not. Giving kalima was confirming his death , giving him death certificate before his actual death. I couldn't do that because I do not believe in kalima or surah, I do not believe they are divine.

A new bed was made in the sun. More comfortable.
Just before taking him to this new bed , he was pulled up to a sitting position for a few second. Just then the strangest thing happened , the strangest thing that would haunt me for years.
My father stared at me and gave me a strange mocking smile. Just for a few second. What was the meaning of his smile ? That I was a fool to play against god ?That my auto suggestion was worthless against the will of god ?
Was it a smile to mock a kafir ?
Then I realized his conscious level working. Just couple of hours complete rest would make my father okay again. I was optimistic. He was lying flat on his back. Coverlet drawn to his neck. He was conscious trying to get back his breathing system.
Everyone was anxiously waiting. There was silence and strange expression on the faces.
Suddenly my untie (father's sister ) came and burst out in loud cry throwing her at his legs...
"Oh my dear brother ... !"

Instantly father recognized her and gave up the will power that was keeping him alive. A wave switched from life to death to reality.
At the same moment some women started to recite from the holy koran. In sad pathetic tune they made my father realized the power of god.
My auntie's cry and the recitation from the koran created an environment that made my father understand the reality and accept the death.
The act of swallow had reached the final stage.

My little sister wasn't home. She was in the school (a kinder garden school teacher , the most responsible manager who was keeping us alive with her small income.)
When she heard she was literally running back. Throwing her bag , she sat down beside father and started to rub his palm. She was yet to burst into tears that would be volcanic soon after.
Strangely enough father recognized her and a smile spread on his face. He looked happy and content and was holding her hand lovingly, confidently. Most probably he was waiting for her all this time.
Seeing this sudden thought flashed through my mind. He hadn't given up! Still there was hope !
My little sister was the dearest to him. And I wanted him come back. So I played the most brutal part. I hit his supreme conscious level. To see him bounce back. The most vicious auto suggestion anyone had ever made.
"You are a coward. You are irresponsible. You are a worthless father. Can you prove I am wrong ? come back and give your daughter marriage. "
oh ! In a second his face ashened to twisted pain.

My two irresponsible hands were in my jeans pockets ,my not to look at cursed face was turned towards the sky and my two sick eyes that always see the wrong picture were fixed at far off distance.

I was wandering through the mourners and reflecting on the scene with my father in the morning. I was indifferent to the hard reality.
Auntie (father's sister ) blocked my way suddenly.
"Get ready. Take your bath and put on fresh clothes... you must carry the coffin. " Her voice was smeared with affection and concern.
Automatically I turned into a heartless ,emotion less statue old. History flickered in my mind.
My face resembled great Copernicus.

Socrates peered through my eyes.
"Let them do whatever they like.
Let them worship sacred.
Let them love rituals
but you are ...
Copernicus
Socrates ... "

kitchen wastes are thrown into dustbin...

dead dogs are floated in the river...
king cobras are burnt...
dead human beings are buried...
It doesn't matter what you do with the waste ...
throw into the dustbin,
float in the river,
burn or bury,
You do it to keep you clean and free of stink...

Great Socrates kept peering through my eyes ...

People die every day
animals die every day ...
What happens is normal
There is nothing to be emotional
there is nothing to show your love

My auntie pushed me again.
"Do you hear me ?"
Could I really hear to aunt ?
Could Socrates hear to the king ?
Suddenly auntie realized that the statue had no power to hear. It was of no use talking to a statue. So she left
but my mother came.

And soon she left too.

Father had already been washed, bathed, clad in white shroud and put in the coffin.

Incense was burning. Sweet fragrance was spreading.
When the mourners saw me refusing to carry the coffin, their eyes fired with hatred and rage. They could burn me alive but they didn't. Instead , they left silently leaving all burial responsibility to me.
No one would carry the coffin because I wouldn't carry.
A son couldn't refuse.
It was not forgivable.
Socrates peered through my eyes and I left the coffin too.
I walked, walked, walked to the river bank avoiding "what a heartless, cruel son" whispers to my ears.
Could I really carry the weight of my dead father on my careless ,flexible, weak shoulders ?
I stood motionless leaning against the rail of the bridge.
I knew they would come. They were bound to come carrying the coffin on their shoulders.
I stood and kept waiting.

People take bath to be clean or sacred ?

Socrates peered through my eyes again.
For carrying coffin you must be sacred taking bath.
But am I not sacred without taking a bath ?
God is sacred and present every where ... everywhere in the universe...in every atom ... in the mosque , temple ,church , heart , body , waste , goo ...everything is sacred...
Do I need to take a bath ?
To be sacred or clean ?