E-Paper
A community that bonds in crisis
In a moment of grief, what Boston's Indian community did for us went way beyond all normal, writes Sunil Lala.
The call came exactly at 1:00 pm, as I was struggling with some routine IT issues of the day. It was from the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center - a world renowned hospital located in Boston, affiliated to Harvard Medical School.
The voice of the nurse on the other end of the line was calm and business-like. It was obvious she had done this many times before and had it reduced to an art form. The message was short and simple. "Sunil," she said, "We have a liver for your dad. We would like you to come over right away."
A liver! This is the call we had all been waiting for. And yet, this is the call that I always dreaded receiving. Many months of uncertainty were finally coming to an end. The moment of truth was upon us.
Everything that happened from that point on seemed unreal then and it still does. I remember shaking nervously as I called my family to tell them about the call. I remember emailing my friends, asking them to pray for us. Even though I am an agnostic, I couldn't afford to take any chances in a matter of such magnitude. My personal views were of little consequence. Discretion being the better part of valour, I prayed too.
I remember being in a daze as we drove to the hospital through the snow-covered streets of Boston. I remember not remembering whether I had taken the correct exit to get on to the Massachusetts Turnpike. I remember thinking that I was still on Interstate-495, headed South. I remember my heart pounding at a thousand beats a minute, so hard that I was sure everyone in the car could hear it.
And I remember my dad's strong and relaxed demeanour through the entire ordeal. I remember him talking to my brother in India. I remember him assuring me that we had gone through the Mass Pike toll booth and that we were indeed heading towards downtown Boston. I remember watching in amazement as I saw him go in for one of the most complex surgeries with incredible, almost surreal strength, and a "bring it on" attitude. I remember him, laughing and joking even under the effect of a sedative, telling us not to worry as we barely held back our tears.
I remember a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remember a strong urge to hold him back, to prevent him from going into that operation theatre. And I remember holding his hands in the pre-op room and telling him that I'd see him in a few hours.
But that was the last time I saw my dad alive.
Anyone, who has lost a parent, knows that the grief is simply unbearable. But what followed was the miracle of the Indian community in Boston. What they did for us went way beyond all normal, logical definitions of "support". They took time off from work and pretty much camped at our house. They prepared meals for us, day and night.
They took care of the mind-numbing protocols that death imposes upon us, giving us ample time and space to grieve. They visited local temples and gurdwaras, spoke with priests and made arrangements for pujas. They went to Indian grocery stores and purchased various ingredients needed for these ceremonies. They talked to the hospital, to funeral homes and to cremation houses. They got information on caskets and urns and death certificates. I realise how tough this must have been for them. But they did it.
They made trips to Logan airport to pick up friends and relatives, who had travelled from far off places to be with us, and brought them to our house. They pleaded with travel agents and with airlines and made sure that we got our tickets to India in time.
People from the local Indian society, people who I had never even met, worked tirelessly to make sure that everything went smoothly.
It had snowed heavily in Boston the previous week and our walkway was completely buried. These magnificent and selfless desis came to our house at night armed with snow shovels and worked for hours in the freezing cold to clear the snow off the walkway, so that my dad could "visit" home one last time. They will never know how much that meant to us.
But most importantly, they hugged us, consoled us and cried with us. They shared with us stories of their own personal losses.
Here in Massachusetts, in a land 10,000 miles from home, my dad got a final farewell that was both dignified and heartfelt. For that, we will always be grateful.
My dad taught me a lot in my 39 odd years, though I never thanked him for it. He taught me quadratic equations and calculus, about thermal power plants and about transmission lines. He taught me to "keep my ears open and my mouth shut", though I don't think I ever mastered that art. He taught me the importance of moderation, of patience and of critical thinking. He taught me how to tie the Windsor knot. He taught me how to live.
And then, on one cold January morning in Boston, he taught me how to die - like a man, unafraid and laughing. Neither a long illness nor death could make a dent in his strength, his intellect, or his fearless attitude.
So here's a big thanks to the Indian community in Boston for coming together and being with a fellow Indian in a moment of sorrow. And here's to you daddy - a tribute from your son, with my first entry in this online diary. Thanks for doing magnificently, the thankless job of being a father.
We remember you every single moment of our lives and we miss you terribly. In my own time, I hope to be with you again someday and stay for eternity. So, look out for me. But for now, it's goodbye and Godspeed from all of us.
Or, as your grandson Sunny says - see you later, alligator.
