Loving and losing
parentsby Rajbir Deswal
One out of every three senior citizens in our country being subjected
to abuse, ill-treatment, dishonour and disrespect, and nearly 60 percentile of
their total population being made parties in property-related disputes, compels
me to think as to whose property they themselves are. Whether you love your
children is never a question; but whether you love your parents when they are
middle-aged or really old generally varies from person to person.
When my mother died, I was surprised
to see a doctor-friend of mine, who was treating her till then, breaking down
inconsolably. I have always since then known him to be a parent-lover-worshipper
rather!
A colleague of mine does his mother’s
nursing himself who is now 80 years old, despite the doctors’ advice to engage a
professional female nursing attendant. I have always found a typical glow on his
face, which is surely the result of his basking in the glory of his mother’s
blessings - unsaid and not conveyed though, for she is incapacitated even to
that extent.
An uncle of mine, whose father was
murdered when he was just 18, fought valiantly all the legal battles with his
mother being around. He said he was actually orphaned when his mother died. I
remember what happened when he was to celebrate his son being commissioned in
the Army. He cried with his face buried in a pillow, whispering to himself, "O’
God! Only if Bebe were alive today!"
A friend’s wife living in the UK lost
her mother at home. Condoling and consoling her as is the custom, I said, "Take
heart, at least you have had your mother by your side till the ripe age
of 82!" "What are you trying to tell me, please!" she said being more
upset. I realised then that I should not have said that a ripe age is the right
age for some one’s parent to go from our midst.
Now a senior bureaucrat, once a
childhood buddy of mine, went to call on his parents staying back in his
village. Having met his father first, he ushered in an ante-room to meet his
mother lying on her cot, struggling for breath and coughing due to an attack of
asthma.
Holding her skinny hands, the son
assuaged her by saying that she would be alright soon, but that his father too
was worried about his mother. "Why? Did the old man say that? And does he
really think about me, himself being unwell? Take care, O’ son, he is
going to be gathered to his ancestors soon!" Believe it; my friend
informed me that his father breathed his last the following day. And his mother
died day after. He was a broken man.
When we were shifting Bau Ji,
my father, from a local hospital to the PGI, Chandigarh, after he suffered a
heart attack, the paramedics holding the wheeled stretcher dragged him inside
the ambulance so unprofessionally that one of his hands got stuck in a latch and
his skin tore off. I couldn’t bear the sight of seeing blood on the hand of my
unconscious father, who might have at that time not felt any pain. But it pains
me till date - his loss apart!
Emotions, bonds, tags and values
enhance our love for parents. Skirmishes, demands, expectations, environment,
place, sacraments, biases, circumstances and your own becoming parents make all
the difference. But parents do deserve the desirable, if not equal amount of
love, compassion, care and respect.
Remember your father’s finger that you held while
trying to toddle, now has fissures on its skin, and the cushiony lap of your
mother has only bones to make no bones about it. Take care before it’s too
late!http://www.tribuneindia.com/2012/20120629/edit.htm#5
