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Credit: DH Illustration
My Periappa had passed away. He was my father’s first cousin. They had grown up together in the same ancestral house. I had to be there for his final journey. He was there for us when our father passed away. I was 19 then.
He accompanied my 17-year-old brother to Haridwar, held the young lad’s hand when he did Appa’s last rites. He did my kanyadaan when I got married and befittingly, played the father’s role when it was my brother’s turn.
Despite the onset of Parkinson’s, he travelled by train all alone and came all the way to bless my son on his Upanayanam. I had to go to pay my last respects.
As our father lay semi-comatose in the hospital, his distraught family did the best they could. No time for any emotions, we took care of him, fetching medicines the doctors ordered, moving him from one ward to the other, getting different tests done, all the while trying to take care of ourselves, too.
Each one of us seemed to be on his own, trying to cope. It was draining, mentally and physically.
We were exhausted, dazed and numb as his mortal remains lay in front of us, trying hard to make sense of what had happened. We didn’t get a chance to bid a proper goodbye to him. And it took a while to process it and move on. Though Periappa was not physically present with us all the time, it was assuring to know someone had our backs.
Now with his passing away, it felt as if we had lost a parent all over again. My husband and I drove from Delhi to Haridwar to pay obeisance to the departed soul. And when I touched his feet one last time, I silently wished, “So long Periappa, please tell Appa when you meet him that his family is doing just fine.” It was a rite of passage that helped me get the closure I had been seeking all this while.
That’s the essence of a pilgrimage, my brother remarked. Any pilgrimage requires you to put in some effort. And you made that effort.