My father passed away last Wednesday. He was 91.Although one would steel oneself as much as possible for the eventuality, the event is quite a bad surprise. I was at work and got a phone call from my mother. I can't remember what I said first but I bet it was stupid. She told he wasn't breathing and looked blue, as she wailed on the phone. I told her to call 995. That was it. I told my boss that my dad was sick and I had to go home.
The taxi took me home in about 20 mins. At the foot of my block was an ambulance, and outside my flat was a orange stretcher. I entered my father's room to see five persons stare back at me. The lady in charge of the paramedics told me very plainly that my father's heart had stopped beating and proceeded to show the ECG printout of a flatline. How undeniably factual. A line to mark the end of a line. 1547hrs, though I knew my father departed some time earlier.
The arrangements for the funeral were made through the Sikh Welfare Council. They are remarkably practical. Jasbir Singh came to my home and told us what needed to get done, how and what it would cost. Most expectations were laid out clearly and we had some simple decisions to make. We embalmed the body so that relatives and friends had time to come to pay respects. It gave us a chance to reconnect with the outside world, and introduce my friends to my family.
On Thursday afternoon, I was part of the ritual bathing and dressing. Post embalming, the body is cold and stiff. It was not easy to see my father like this, much less handling him.
Depending on how you look it, the sombre atmosphere came and went. After a while, we were having casual conversations about what my father did, what he liked and about things he said. We even laughed about our memories. Maybe it was a cover up, an easy denial of the situation.I couldn't stay sombre for long, especially when my friends and colleagues arrived. Strangely, it was like a party. I know it sounds wrong and insensitive. It reminds me of an episode of Star Trek when 2 members of the crew were presumed dead and personnel of the Enterprise threw a gathering to talk about how they liked the 'deceased'. It was sort of like that at my home on Thursday night. I thank all those that came.
On Friday, he was cremated. That was emotional for my mother and sister, while I stayed pretty quiet. At Mandai, I was greeted by elderly gentlemen who said they knew my father or had relatives who did. It looked like they had my father's eyes, a biological trait that festered among those born in the land of five rivers, Punjab. It was heartening to learn this because the closest form of lineage and extended family I know of is in Malaysia from my mother's side, while most of my father's relations moved to Vancouver, Australia and London.
On Saturday, I collected the ashes. From recognisable form to bone and ash. By noon, my father was a billion, trillion things escaping into air and water off Changi Point. Flying and swimming. Blending and merging. Free and unburdened by weak knees. Returned to the universe.
I had told him I loved him some time back. It took some effort. These recent years it was a matter of looking after him the best way we could. Though we made some mistakes, we think we tried our best. Those looking after a bedridden elderly person of sometimes unsound mind, generally attention seeking, seemingly perpetually hungry, occasionally freakishly strong and violent but nonetheless lovable individual will tell you that it can be physically and emotionally draining. My mother is one champion man.The final prayers, the end of the complete reading of the Sikh Holy Book, takes place on Sunday 24 Feb at the Gurdwara Pardesi Khalsa at 9 Geylang Lorong 29 from 1-3pm. You can come around and say hi.
