- "Sa ki ti ene bon dimunn sa". Countless times must I have heard this statement about my father from people of different age, color, community and social background. Yes, hundreds of times. I usually nod and politely say thank you as there is nothing much to add.
These very words somehow resonated differently in me last Sunday after lunch at the centre. Circumstances brought me to Anesh's place and I was introduced to his father-in-law who, in the early 70s, was my father's younger fellow colleague at Aryan Vedic Primary School.
- 'Sa ki ti ene bon dimunn sa. Ou konner, li ti enkuraz mwa asster ene diksyoner et mo enkorr ena li. Vini mo montrer ou diksyonner ou papa ti fer moi asster la, line bien aide mwa ameliorr mo vokabilerr.
Kuma ou papa la nepli trouver sa, sé ene lott kategori meme sa, zott aide ameliorr la vie dimunn' did he share in a very emotional tone.
Was I inclined to being particularly sensitive or did I choose to pay genuine attention to that depiction by someone who himself seemed to carry a great sense of knowledge and wisdom about him, a man who appeared to be same age my father was when he passed away? Maybe it was a bit of both.
As we drove back home, I shared thoughts with Antish about the impact my dad had left on people to the extent of still being remembered 15 years after his passing. Wherever I go, people talk about him fondly and I also observed that anytime someone, be it a relative or a complete stranger, referred to him, it was never done in a haste; people take their time, choose their words carefully and come up with a whole paragraph along with the mention of an action of his which has remained engraved in their mind. As I reflect on the years gone by, it is evident that his influence is not confined to our shared memories; it lives on in the stories people tell and the lessons they've learned from him. As an individual, my father was not specially warm or expansive, on the contrary he was actually quite reserved and shy but there are many instances where his principles guided difficult decisions leaving an enduring impression on people and earning him respect and admiration, something I find humbling, almost moving.
And then, there was his pursuit of knowledge, through experiences and conversations but mainly through books. Until he died, he was always holding a book in his hand, even when dementia hit him in the end and he could not read anymore. A firm believer in the power of transformative knowledge all his life, I think the touch and the smell of the pages of a book reassured him in his last days; like old and loyal friends, they were precious companions who would peacefully accompany him to the other side. At the dawn of your life books are not about intellectual stimulation anymore as they are about emotional resonance, they are just memorabilia, a reminder of who you once were.
My father will also be remembered as one of the greatest admirers ever of V.S. Naipaul. He collected all his works and would sometimes buy 2 or 3 copies of Miguel Street or The Overcrowded Barracoon which he would tirelessly and religiously read over and over again.
I, myself, have tried to read Naipaul, just to fool myself that I share something in common with my old man but the truth is, I am not a fan of this author at all and I gave up very fast. Neither do I like his stories nor the depiction of any of his characters which I consider a gallery of dark, resentful, frustrated personae. As wonderful and elegant Naipaul's prose is, the characters in his books often tend to be a bunch of tormented souls hating a life they are trying to make sense of. Not my thing, honestly. That Mr. Biswas, how he got me on my nerves at 16. Portrayed as a flawed and difficult character with imperfections, I can’t describe how irritating he was, always brooding and cultivating dark thoughts.
If I had to find common ground with my father, I would say that I have inherited his soft nature, compassionate heart and incredibly bad business acumen. He would help anyone who would come knock at his door and I have a vivid souvenir of how he supported Devi, our nanny, during a painful period of her life.
He used to collaborate in the local newspaper L'Express where he had a column. Some of his pro-maraz articles even sparked controversies which would embarrass me as a teenager. As an adult I have a better reading of what he tried to say and has long made peace with that. Unlike him, I have no desire to be published and no wish for followers but I wouldn't mind people saying 'Sa ki ti enn bon dimunn sa' about me. Not out of ego, because I will be long gone and unable to hear these words. The reason I wish people would speak good of me is so that it can reflect on the kids and be a door opener to them at some point. When people talk good about my father or my mother, which is often the case, it naturally enhances my self-worth and eases the connection with these people. The mere fact of hearing someone say, " sa missié S. so garsson sa, guett li bien donne li tou seki li bizin" is a powerful enhancer and I feel very grateful towards my parents for putting me in such a privileged position. So I am thinking that maybe if I can be kind and helpful to others, this could possibly have the same ripple effect on my nephews and nieces in the future. Who knows? This could help them build stronger relationships as they navigate the complex web of human connections.
