Family Short Story – My Father
Photo credit: rachjose from morguefile.com
Please do not neglect reading.
I am feeling so lucky to share my story with you. Believe me, I am writing this real story only for my father.
My father was a school teacher. The name of my father is Late Shri Dilipchandra Bhattacharya. He was a teacher in Jaynagar institution at South 24 Parganas, Kolkatta. My father was a scholar. He had extraordinary knowledge in all subjects. My father has twelve children. He used to work hard to run his family smoothly by taking care of all his children. He had a very simple dressing style; one kurta, dhoti and pair of boots were his dress code for all occasions. He struggled day and night to provide food, clothes and education for us.
My father died in the year 2005 by Cancer. On the way home from school my father met with a tragic accident. He was riding an old bicycle on the road which was his constant mode of transport to work. Suddenly, due to ill fate he dashed with a truck, as a result, his old bicycle was crushed and he tumbled off from it and fell on the rough street. He was severely injured with several bruises and became senseless.
When he regained his sense, he realised he was in the hospital bed, people took him to the Silver line hospital at Sonarpur in Kolkatta. My father was tightened up with ropes on his bed, he could not move. After inquiring with the doctor about why he was being tied with ropes the doctor said that he might fall off the bed so he had to do this.
I am Shri Arunkumar Bhattacharya, I stay in Mumbai, my brothers called up to inform me about the incident after five days of the mishap that took place. I reached kolkatta by air, went straight to the hospital where my father was admitted. Whoever visited my father in the hospital he used to tell them;
“ kostarashechis? Amakeniechol, Badijabo, Ekhanemorejabo.”
I went to see the doctor to talk about the condition of my father. Alas! I found that the doctor was smoking right in front of the ICU. I immediately decided to take my father home. Doctors insisted to sign the papers on my own risk which I did, my father was discharged.
From the year 2000 to the year 2005 my father was weak and bed ridden and my brothers were very greedy. My father used to get a pension in pittance which my brothers would grab and use it all up. In exchange my father used to eat a handful of rice and a small piece of fish twice a day. Nothing more. I arranged for medicine, milk and some money for my old father. However, I did not know that some dangerous disease was eating him up.
I am a very spiritual person and read Shrimad Bhagwat Gita everyday. On that fateful day, as destiny never waits for our commands, I had finished reading the last verse of Gita, ‘AstamAdhaya’ when one phone call came saying,
“Your father is no more, he died of cancer.”
I felt there was no ground under my feet everything around me was dark.They actually called me so late, after five days when everything was finished.
To write about my father or talk about him is an “Epic”.
Flowers all are bloomed in the dark at night,
They did not know they will be no more in the morning
At the end of the night.
They will be sacrificed for the sake of worship.
Flowers mother the plant cries with pain in self conceitness.
The plant is having bath with bloody tears,
The bell of the temple is maintaining harmony of worship,
No use of surviving without flowers.
Plant is gradually drying,
‘o lord, o all mighty, take me with you!
__END__
