DAD'S LAST ADVENTURE

I haven't written about Dad in a while; here's about a strange little story near the end of his earthly life.

As I have written before, my Dad died late in 1982, mercifully missing the horrors of two years later. I had returned to our family home to care for him, as he had become quite testy and had decided that only his only daughter could help care for his still abundant kesh (unshorn hair). Mani and Sandeep had followed, leaving the farm in the very capable hands of Ramona, so we were all together there, in my old rooms.

Shortly before his death, he started acting very strangely. At odd times - and for no particular reason - he would blurt out "Cats!" H e had always liked cats and we had always had at least one in the house, but this was really strange.



(An aside: For some unknown reason, his favourite was Kitty, a very stupid cat; one of the few cats I have ever disliked [a hint of jealousy, perhaps?]. He was very sad when she died shortly after our wedding in 1970. I think he overfed her on wedding feast food and it was too much for the 15 year old fatty.)

After a time, it dawned on me that he was playing "senile" to tease us because except for that and being a bit cantankerous, OK, more than a bit, he was his usual self, clearly in full possession of his senses. But I couldn't figure out what he was trying to accomplish. He never did anything just to be silly. He always had some reason for what he did, even if it made sense only to himself.

Surprisingly, it was Lilly who gave us the answer. Although a good Jain, Lilly loved the theatre as long as the play had no "blue" components and contained (almost) no violence. One day, she came running in with a magazine, all excited. "Mai! Mai! Cats is coming to Broadway!" I gave her a puzzled look. Her grammar was always impeccable. "Cats is" just wasn't Lilly. Seeing the look on my face, she laughed.

"Cats is this most wonderful musical that's been running in London." What Dad had been referring to became crystal clear. He shared Lilly's love of theatre. "I so much wanted to see it, but I thought I'd never get the chance. Now it's coming to Broadway!" Her face fell slightly. "I suppose it's sold out for a long time, though."

"No doubt." I heard Dad's booming basso profundo and realised that he had ambled in unheard. "No doubt. I had to pull a lot of strings to get the tickets. Couldn't get opening night, but only a little while later. Tickets for us and Lilly, too." He was trying his best to look and sound serious, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket. The envelope held five, third row centre tickets to Cats at the Winter Garden Theater. (Admission: I didn't remember the theatre's name; I had to look it up.) Lilly squealed and Dad looked very pleased with himself. He had not purchased a ticket for her husband Raj, but he hated the theatre and would be happy to be excluded. Besides, he and Dad avoided each other, the irresistible force and the immovable object.

(Another slight aside: Dad liked most people, but there were a few he just couldn't tolerate. Among this group was Lilly's husband, a Hindu (Kshatriya, he would be sure to inform you) named Raj Singh. [Yes, it was a strange marriage, but this is not the time to write about it. They were happy, even if no one else was.] Dad had good reason to dislike him. He had this belief that Sikhs were Hindus with long hair, in fact a part of the military wing of Hinduism, under the command of those of his varna (caste, sort of), of course. And his having the surname Singh only made matters worse. Raj and I have had a long-standing dispute about this, put to rest only at Lilly's death. It was her last request; what else could we do?)

As the season to go approached, Dad was getting weaker and weaker and it became clear to all of us that he was not up to a trip to New York. Still, he so much looked forward to going that none of us had the heart to tell him. One day, just a few days before his death, he had me sit beside him and he said, "Dear daughter, you remember about Cats?" I nodded. "This old body is all used up and it's almost time for me to go home to Satguru. I won't be making any more trips to New York in this frail, old shell." He had been sitting back, relaxed; suddenly, he sat bolt upright. "I made too much effort and spent too much money on those tickets for them to be wasted! I insist that you must go. And you must enjoy yourselves. This body won't be there, but I will. It'll be my last adventure before I go home."

I admit I was holding back tears, but I couldn't let him see that. "Will you be sitting in your seat there with us?"

He burst out laughing. "A disembodied soul need pay no admission and needs no seat." He lowered his voice. "Give my ticket to that bastard Raj, if he'll take it. Tell him it's a gift from the old Sardar who lived a Sikh and died a Sikh and will never be a Hindu, but who is generous even to those who try to dishonour him." The thought was really typical of Dad, who loved the grand gesture, although I had never heard him call anyone a bastard before.

So Dad died. We went to see Cats. All of us, including Raj. We had a grand good time. I still don't know if Dad was there with us, though.
I have a sneaking suspicion that he might have gone straight home to his beloved Guru Ji.

Betty Buckley from the London production of Cats