My Father's Batchmates

It's Father's Day, and I want to tell you the story of how I found an extended family of sorts with my father's batchmates. 

I met my Achhan’s (my father) college batchmates during a reunion they had organised in Kannur, Kerala earlier this year. Amma (my mother), Ammamma (my grandma) and I had been graciously invited despite Achhan having passed away several years ago. I had met a few of them earlier, but I didn't know most of them. I was looking forward to getting to know the people he had studied with, and maybe hear a few stories about him and their college life.

I had no idea that a single day would leave a lasting impression on me. 

Here's what happened. 


A beachside reunion

It was the middle of February, just one day after Valentine's Day. 

My family and I landed in the middle of the night, and checked into the the beachside resort where everyone else was staying. In the morning, we were introduced to many of Achhan's classmates at breakfast. Amma, being a very sociable person, immediately made a few friends. 

A little later, we visited the nearby St. Angelo Fort. 

Built by the Portugese in the early 16th century, it was later captured by the Dutch, and then sold to native Arakkal dynasty. The British took over it afterwards. 

Amma at the St. Angelo Fort in Kannur

I was staring into what appeared to be an underground cell in an area in the fort which was right next to the sea and almost level with it. The cell could only be accessed through a metal grill trapdoor built into the ground. As I was wondering what this was used for, an uncle came up to me and asked me if I knew what it was.

"No..."

"It's a cell for prisoners."

"But what they did do when it rained? Wouldn't the water get in?"

Uncle pointed to the sea, and said, "When the tide is high, the water floods the cell and the prisoner drowns."

Ouch. 

The controversial prison cell being discussed

Hungry from all the trekking in the hot sun, we came back to have some great food (fish fry <3). 

Later in the day, a couple of Achhan’s classmates Raghunath uncle and JP uncle even showed us around the city. The fishing harbour, devoid of fishermen during the afternoon, was a pretty sight. We even visited Raghunath uncle's house which had recently completed construction. Ammamma happily plucked some of the mangoes growing in the garden. 

 JP Uncle, Ammamma and Raghunath Uncle at Azhikkal fishing harbour

In the evening, a stage had been set up with an orchestra. The orchestra sang some songs. Members of the audience sang some as well. 

Yours truly, also an audience member, had no plans to sing. And yet, somehow, I ended up on stage with my father’s classmate Premanand uncle, winging my way through ‘Tere mere milan ki ye raina’.

Those few minutes changed a lot for me.

The song we sang was from the 70’s Hindi film Abhimaan, and the Hindi word 'abhimaan' means pride. Ironic, because when Amma had insisted earlier that I sing, I didn’t go up because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of so many new people. I haven't practiced in a long time, I told myself. It would just end up in disaster. 

If you never try, you can’t lose, right?

Wrong, of course. It’s only when Ammamma convinced me that I decided to give it a go. It’s different when you’re doing things for your grandparents rather than your parents.

While my mother and father never put much stock in being top of the class, I always felt like I had to live up to something. 

After all, my father had a reputation for being the bookish kid in the large joint family he grew up in. He was a ranker everywhere and studied engineering on a full scholarship. 

I even learned that he had the nickname ‘Action 500’ in college because he had once scored a 500 out of 500 in his exams. It refers to the medicine Vicks Action 500, but I think the name might have stuck because an occasional loud sniff was his trademark. Dust allergy is a family tradition and I can proudly say I'm carrying the torch forward. 

Like achhan, amma was a ranker in her university and school, on top of being good at several extra-curricular activities as well. 

What nerds.

That's why I refused when Amma asked, but agreed when Ammamma did. Ammamma and I disagree a lot because of the generation gap, but like they say, old age is a second childhood. I think we can relate to each other’s stubbornness and childishness on some sub-conscious level. 

When Premanand uncle and I came down from the stage after the song, we were met with congratulations. I was introduced to many of Achhan’s friends, and many of them even insisted I keep in touch.

It made me think, because I could suddenly see how unselfish they were about this.

This is what they actually look like. 

These were people who had no obligation to be nice to me, and yet they were because they respected my father and wanted to be there for me since he wasn’t around for me anymore.

Migrants like us don’t have too many ‘elders’ that they can rely on for support or guidance. It's not like we're struggling more than the earlier generation - we have more physical and material comforts than before, and yet, depression and anxiety are increasing. 

We have friends, but they’re struggling too, so we can’t really give each other external perspective all the time. Workplace mentors also sometimes exist, but these days, pressure is intense, and failure isn't tolerated too well. 

The struggle seems harder than it actually is when you don't have someone with more experience and wisdom telling you that hardships are a part of life, and even the worst of times will pass.

That day, by going on stage, I took a leap of faith. I told myself that it was fine even I sang horribly in front of all those people that I had just met.  

I trusted myself, and them. And suddenly, all those ‘strangers’ stopped being strangers.

Weeks later now, they still check on me. I even met some of them in Delhi (before coronavirus, of course).

It made me think that life is not a lonely fight after all. Achhan may no longer present with us, but it's as if his deeds - his karma - keep me company in ways I could never imagine, through his advice which I try to live by, and through his friends.