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A daugh­ter’s last good­bye to her Babaji

Vis­it­ing an old age home on a spe­cial occasion has been a prac­tice in­stilled in me by my mother ever since I was a teenager. She in­sisted that any joy­ous occasion must be cel­e­brated with mem­bers of the nearby old age home first, be­fore cel­e­brat­ing it with friends.

It was dur­ing one of my birth­day vis­its that I met Babaji in the old age home. A tall and a fit gen­tle­man, wear­ing a crisp, white cot­ton kurta-py­jama with a flow­ing white beard and a neat tur­ban, he stood with folded hands when I met him for the first time.
Since I was a reg­u­lar, my eyes never missed out a new face. But his face couldn’t have been missed be­cause he looked a mis­fit for that place. Sur­prised with his pres­ence, I humbly asked him where was he was from. I put for­ward the query re­luc­tantly be­cause ask­ing res­i­dents of an old age home such a ques­tion can be hurt­ful.

Since I was a reg­u­lar, my eyes never missed out a new face. But his face couldn’t have been missed be­cause he looked a mis­fit for that place. Sur­prised with his pres­ence, I humbly asked him where was he was from. I put for­ward the query re­luc­tantly be­cause ask­ing res­i­dents of an old age home such a ques­tion can be hurt­ful.

The som­bre-look­ing el­derly friends of mine liv­ing their last years in the dull dor­mi­to­ries have of­ten shared sto­ries of aban­don­ment by their kith and kin, espe­cially male heirs. How­ever, Babaji’s story stood apart as he de­cided to come and live in the old age home on his own. A land­lord from Sirhind, with acres of prop­erty and enough sons to fight over the in­her­i­tance, he de­cided to live the rest of his years in an old age home.
His pres­ence sud­denly made my vis­its more com­mu­nica­tive. I never asked him his name and he never asked me mine. I would call him Babaji, a com­mon salu­ta­tion for a pa­ter­nal fig­ure, and he would call me “meri dhee (my daugh­ter)”.

His pres­ence sud­denly made my vis­its more com­mu­nica­tive. I never asked him his name and he never asked me mine. I would call him Babaji, a com­mon salu­ta­tion for a pa­ter­nal fig­ure, and he would call me “meri dhee (my daugh­ter)”.
As our in­ter­ac­tions grew, I found Babaji was a man of great hon­our and pride. He would do­nate an equal amount to the lo­cal gur­d­wara for every lit­tle do­na­tion given to him by me. “Fa­thers don’t take gifts from daugh­ters,” he would say.
Dur­ing our con­ver­sa­tions, I would of­ten ask him if any­one from his fam­ily had come to ask about his well be­ing. Sadly, there was never even a phone call from his sons or their fam­i­lies.

Dur­ing our con­ver­sa­tions, I would of­ten ask him if any­one from his fam­ily had come to ask about his well be­ing. Sadly, there was never even a phone call from his sons or their fam­i­lies.
It was dur­ing my last visit to the old age home when I went to dis­trib­ute sweets after the birth of my daugh­ter that I saw Babaji’s ear­marked bed with­out a mat­tress. Soon enough my fears were con­firmed. “He passed away a month ago. He was such a saintly man. He died with­out any dis­com­fort,” said the at­ten­dant when I en­quired about Babaji.
“Did his fam­ily come fi­nally,” I asked. “Yes, his sons came to take the body. A le­gal cer­tifi­cate holds a lot of im­por­tance after all,” replied the at­ten­dant.

“Did his fam­ily come fi­nally,” I asked. “Yes, his sons came to take the body. A le­gal cer­tifi­cate holds a lot of im­por­tance after all,” replied the at­ten­dant.
With lament in my heart, I con­tin­ued dis­tribut­ing sweets to oth­ers; some of them con­soled me say­ing that he is fi­nally home, where he would be treated well. Just when I was about to leave, I saw an­other new face. As I of­fered the sweets to the old woman, she said, “May you be blessed with a son next time.”
I left with­out a com­ment. As my last good­bye to Babaji, I went to the lo­cal gur­d­wara to do­nate his share of char­ity. I don’t know whether his sons did the need­ful re­gard­ing his last rites but since he called me his daugh­ter, I couldn’t stop my­self from do­ing it.

I left with­out a com­ment. As my last good­bye to Babaji, I went to the lo­cal gur­d­wara to do­nate his share of char­ity. I don’t know whether his sons did the need­ful re­gard­ing his last rites but since he called me his daugh­ter, I couldn’t stop my­self from do­ing it.

Resources:-
Links: HT-2020-03-05-HT_PUNJ-HT_PUNJ-5_06-99bca5-05032020183128-uxz
Links: https://www.pressreader.com/india/hindustan-times-jalandhar/20200305/281805695978770
Hindustan Times (Jalandhar)
Date: 5 Mar 2020 Author: Sanna K Gupta san­nakaushal@gmail.com (The writer is a Hoshiarpur-based au­thor and free­lance con­trib­u­tor)