Let them never slip away

Don’t put off till tomorrow, when it comes to making time to connect with those in your circle, especially the ones who are alone and lonely, and whose voices often get drowned in the big, chaotic sounds of a sometimes, friendless city

It was one of those rare evenings, when I walked past the gate of my complex and the day shift security guard was still on duty. I returned home early to counter the threat of an already threatening downpour. He hesitantly approached me, “Dutta uncle guzar gaye.” With that one sentence, the already overcast sky had turned all black.

Dutta uncle was “uncle” to everyone in our residential complex. With his trademark beret, cargo shorts and tee, the ex-armed forces officer stood out for his tall, strapping gait, but it was his warmth and friendly nature that made us all his fans. He was a permanent fixture by the main gate where most of the oldies would hang out. We never missed his friendly wave either before we left for the day or if we returned home by sundown [which was never in my case].

I got to know him better after compulsory outdoor walks became part of my father’s routine. Being reclusive by nature, it was Dutta uncle who would make the extra effort to cajole him to join them. Slowly but surely, ‘Fernandez saab’ became part of the old boys’ club. He was thrilled that he found another beret fan in my father. Over time, advanced Parkinsonism, compounded with multiple hospitalisations, meant that my father’s movements took a hit. His walking routine had dried up. Uncle would always check on him. He lived with his long-ailing wife but had a remarkable zest for life, all beautifully masked of course. He had lost one of his two sons. His surviving son and daughter were scattered across India and overseas. On days when I’d be dripping with emotions of having to leave behind an ill parent, which would range from guilt to frustration emerging from the inexplicable complexities that sole caretakers face, his smiling face or chirpy hello, was an instant mood-upper.

With deteriorating health, my father had to be shifted to an assisted living centre, and Dutta uncle’s concern was all heart, “Beta, please convey my wishes; he is always in my prayers.” A lot was left unsaid with my father, since his condition had hampered comprehensible communication. I found myself communicating even more with uncle in our comfortable equation.

When the pandemic struck, he continued his walking routine, often mask-less. Those were the only occasions when I’d scold him to be safe: “But I can barely breathe,” he would complain, adding, “This disease won’t get me; I have a solid constitution.” I almost believed him.

Then around the second wave, when he was noticeably absent from his seat, I learnt from his friend that he had typhoid. We met weeks later. He was a pale, bent shadow of himself, aided by an assistant (who he let go of, as soon as he could walk with ease). The stride was slower and the baritone had taken a beating. But the spirit was intact; ‘It will see him past this phase’, I told myself.  

I became more invested in his wellbeing after my father had passed. “Have a nice day,” he’d wave out loudly, from his chair, as I’d dash off to work. On days when I was not rushed, conversation would veer from rants about the pandemic to his favourite films, and to my surprise, seeking advice on familial matters. During one of our chats, he asked me if a trip to Nashik to be with his daughter would help, since he was feeling boxed-in in his home—a killer side-effect of the pandemic that messed with senior folk. That was our last heart-to-heart chat. I encouraged him to make that trip: “Change of scene always works, uncle.” A few days later when I noticed that he was still around, he told me he had canned plans since he didn’t wish to ‘trouble’ his daughter’s family. “Pareshaan kyun karein? Main idhar hi teekh hoon; aap sab log hain, na,” he chuckled. I would strictly remind him to buzz me if he needed help, more so at night since I was likely to be awake thanks to a journalist’s skewed body clock; he’d laugh back, “God bless you, beta; no such problems.”

As recently as two Sundays ago, he called to inform that he was experiencing discomfort in his lungs, and had returned from a short stint at the hospital. “Pray for me.” We spoke later as well, and he mentioned an impending scan. I promised I would visit him soon after. That 
never happened.

The errands, the work, the insipid, mundane routines—I had allowed all of these ‘important’ things packed into my urban existence to come in the way of meeting him that last time. He was more friend than uncle; a part of a comforting permanency that we all crave for in our madding lives.

Human nature is such that we tend to get blinded by the fast, pulsating side of things with its splashy headlights. And it is in this race that the Dutta uncles of our universes tend to slip through the cracks. Don’t let this inconspicuous population go unheard and uncared for. Make the effort, make the minutes count, starting today. Because there might never be another time…

mid-day’s Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city’s sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. She tweets @bombayana

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