Absence Which Follows

Arpana Caur

Khushwant uncle went yesterday after a friendship of four decades with my mother who made him President of her Academy and consulted him frequently except in the last two to three years, not wanting to trouble him with our troubles. He translated and published several of my mother’s short stories in Illustrated Weekly of India when he was its Editor and always asked her why she was writing less now. I knew he loved us, missed us when there were gaps in the visit, allowed us to come in the forenoon knowing we hardly step out in the evening in his 7.00 to 8.00 slot. Every two or three months he and Kanwal Aunty came for a meal ‘with only two things’ leaving at sharp 9.00 p.m. and always the bones taken away for his cats, never once did he forget them. Such was his generosity that thirty four years ago when he heard I was showing in Bombay for the first time he quietly shot off letters to all the journalists he know (Busybee, Shobha De etc) that Arpana who was like his daughter was showcasing her works. I had an avalanche of write ups including the cover story of ‘Bombay’ magazine. Coverage for arts was so scanty that I did not know what had happened
till one of those journalists told me. At the release of ‘Hymns of the Sikh Gurus’ at the Meridian six years ago, he said from the stage ‘Call her, she must be hiding at the back, this is her book not mine’. That was the kind of grace he was endowed with. Two feet above his head hung the Nanak that Mala,his daughter, had asked me to do for his surprise birthday present last month .As he lay perfectly peacefully, with his usual glow and innocence and as I lifted his head from his pillow for the last turban to be tied I knew that was one of the most precious heads (and hearts) of our century.
Never will I be able to pass Sujan Singh Park easily without a void in my heart.

Love to all,
Arpana