With Father’s Day approaching, many of us may have ambivalent feelings regarding our fathers. When it comes to unresolved issues or strained relationships, maturity helps you to close the doors of reconciliation that may never come. It helps us to rationalize the life lessons about relationships that we must accept. These “lessons” are a lot like wounds and whether or not they heal, we carry them with us as we go on in life.

This story is about a four year old boy and his mother who learned to face the world alone when the father left the family. For reasons which we will never know, the father never looked back or enquired about his son again. Mother and son went on through life and looked out for each other. The mother never spoke about the father, and out of a deep loyalty, the boy never asked any questions.

This small reserved boy grew up and exceeded expectations in school. He moved up the educational hierarchy and became a principal. He was well respected amongst his peers as he was intellectual and scholarly. He eventually married and had two daughters and a son of his own. We will call the son Arvind.

For some reason Arvind’s father, someone who had the responsibility of guiding and nurturing children and who gave private tuition to many students, chose to shut out his only son. Arvind was never given affection or interaction other than what was “required”. Had he eaten, had he done his homework, had he brushed his teeth? He was never hugged or held by his father nor was he cuddled or kissed. He was kept at arms length and conversations were limited to the matter at hand. A cold and unemotional void was their only “bond”. His sisters and mother were treated differently, not in terms of material wants, but in terms of emotional support and recognition. Why this was is anyone’s guess.

Luckily for Arvind, his grandmother was there for him. Her role as mother diminished now that her son had his own family, she turned her attention to Arvind, showering him with affection and attention which was noticeable to all. She was not good at relationships with others but Arvind was always welcome and he found solace in the lonely woman’s company.

But life took an unusual turn for Arvind when a car accident left his father’s physically and mentally challenged. The prognosis was grave for this man whose brilliant mind, once sharp and inquisitive, struggled to grasp even simple events that had occurred only a few hours ago, while memories of thirty years ago seemed alive and vibrant. With the accident his father’s manner became childlike. He waited for Arvind to come home from work at night, listening to each car that passed thinking it was him.

Arvind was suddenly the hero, the sympathetic ear that would have to listen to the ups and downs of an invalid’s day. How strange that finally his father felt free to speak with him, confide in him. And yet it was still not the father who Arvind would have liked to have spoken to.

His elderly grandmother, his mother and sisters had no choice but to leave his father’s care in the hands of Arvind, as he was the only one who could lift him and feed him. It became more and more difficult to care for him as his father’s health deteriorated. There were fleeting moments of clarity where it seemed he understood only too well that his prognosis was not good and he told Arvind “I’m finished, I know I’m finished…” and no matter what Arvind said, his father could not be consoled. Arvind sensed his father’s frustration and it became more evident as feeding him became almost impossible. It was as if his father wanted to speed the process up and have his life over with.

At one point he pulled Arvind close and asked him, “Please take care of my mother, you’re the only one who can do this for me.” It seemed he knew he was leaving the earth because two days later he died.

After his death, a note was found in his father’s papers in the form of a letter addressed to Arvind. The contents of the letter shocked Arvind. It was a request by his father to seek out his grandfather’s family and bridge the lost relationship.

The letter was in the form of a curriculum vitae. “I want you to do what I haven’t been able to do.” it said. His father had pasted a childhood picture of himself onto the document, and on it he listed his date of birth, where he lived, where he went to school. It mentioned that he didn’t have a father, but that he knew who his father was. He wrote that he had actually seen his father a few times at the race track, but that his father never acknowledged even seeing him.

He wrote that he knew he had six sisters and a brother. He listed their names in initials only, but the birthdates were complete. What the journals revealed was a lifetime documented. It even contained a completed family tree which actually traced the first immigrant generation of their family from India who arrived in Mauritius. No one was missed, each person was accounted for in what only could have been called a work of historic proportions. When did his father work on all of this? The work proves he was looking for the family he never had. He wrote that even though he was summoned for his father’s funeral and he refused to attend due again to the loyalty he felt towards his mother, he was not able to concentrate at work.

The letter further led to a locked writing desk that revealed decades of documented daily life. It contained small, handmade journals of newsprint cut to a size of 8 x 5” and painstakingly sewn together.

The work on and in the journals was meticulous and exact. The covers admonished intruders: PERSONAL, DO NOT READ. CONFIDENTIAL. DO NOT OPEN. HANDS OFF. Each journal was painstakingly pencil lined for straight writing, and the grammar and handwriting they contained were impeccable.

There are over 25 of these journals. The first of which starts in 1971. The journals span 35 years and they are chronicles of daily living, colourful, reflective, intuitive. Sounds, textures, fragrances, feelings, hopes, dreams and sadness. Why would a man so articulate and passionate about the life around him choose not to share this with his son? Traces of crayon marking appear on the cover of the first journal. Was this Arvind’s scribbling? Had he ever climbed up onto his lap as he wrote? Was his father ever tempted to hold him close so that he didn’t fall? We will never know.

The daily entries noted simple things, like the kind of day it was, the price of rice, the political happenings. “Had a nice shave with a new Gilette Extra Blade. 125 toises @ 35 RS per toise.” March 30, 1971. “Don’t seem to be any potatoes in the market. Been to the market, bought the first cauliflower of the season… Potatoes 25 cents per pound, onions were 50 cents per pound, tomatoes were 60 cents a pound”.

“Two months have passed since I started writing this journal. Hope I keep it up. Prayers to god to help the strikers (bus strike) reach an agreement quickly…may those with wicked thoughts and designs change their mind to good things.” (Which referred to organized gangs who terrorized bus riders at the time.)

It contained the trials and tribulations of a young father who dealt with family life including a wife and three small children. A young father who yearned to have his own house, who had the house drawn already, who hated to pay rent.

“How wonderful it is to have a little house of one’s own, with a little vegetable garden in the back, some fruit trees…and a little grass lawn for the children to play on. It must be very peaceful on a Sunday afternoon to sit under a tree and read or just sit…”

“I am 31 today, I’ve been a vegetarian since 1959. I’ve lived in houses whose rent ranged from Rs 7.50 to R100. I’m married and father of 2 two children. With God’s help I hope to be able to have a house of my own at this time next year.” ““A” had his hair cut.” July 7, 1971 “Louis Armstrong died.”

<B>“When Arvind discovered the journals, he scanned them hungrily. He found entries of prayers and hopes obviously by a father who did care very deeply. He worried like any other father and wanted only the very best for his children.”</B>

July 10, 1971, “Used half a lemon in a lettuce salad instead of vinegar. It was very good. Went to bed early. Couldn’t watch Perry Mason.”

Dec. 31, 1971, “Oh God Help me for you help those that help themselves. I used to count on the lottery in order to buy a house, but as the chances for someone to win money from a lottery are nil, I started saving money in order to buy a house. I’ve been to many places and talked to many people about land and homes…” The next day he won Rs 1722.99 in the lottery. His entry after this event... “Enjoyed ourselves”.

The man in the journals revealed a deep love of films and stories, writing summaries of what he had watched on television. He was often moved by a film because of its psychological complexity. The man who wrote in the journals understood only too well the strife of man, his loves, his losses. It was written by a man who was ordinary, a man who lived and breathed his life like any other man…“Agi became ill the very day last year when “T” ( a relative) embarked for France”.

“Time flies and doesn’t wait for us. May she rest in peace. How I didn’t understand her…”, “Its very lonesome when “T” (his wife) and the children are not here.”

“La vie est une ile. Battue par les vagues de la mort. (Life is an island, battered by the waves of mortality…)”…

Upon the discovery of the journals, Arvind scanned them hungrily, searching for entries on special dates like Arvinds’ birthday, his marriage, his graduation, a serious car accident that left him in a coma for 3 days. What he was looking for was confirmation that his father loved him. And the confirmation came for each of these events. Indeed there were entries. Entries of prayers and hopes obviously by a father who did care very deeply. He worried like any other father and wanted only the best for his children.

Arvind immediately went through the telephone book, calling name after name, explaining that a memorial was to be held for his father. One of these calls incurred a long silence. “Arvind?” an unfamiliar voice asked. Hearing his name startled Arvind, but it was the beginning of a new life for him. Long lost relatives had waited for this call for a along time. They had come by to see his father on more than one occasion to drop off invitations to social, family events. But these invitations were never acknowledged or mentioned.

His six aunts, one uncle and nine cousins all knew Arvind. They knew which schools he had gone to, the businesses that he was involved in, his interests. When asked why the grandfather had never made contact, they didn’t know, or what they did know they wanted to be left in the past. They wanted to move forward.

Arvind spent many days in sheer elation. How many of these relatives had he passed in the street without knowing? When Arvind went to the local police station regarding a small matter, he was made to wait while the police officer at the desk finished his conversation with another officer who was complaining about problems with his cellular phone. At one point, the policeman at the desk turned to Arvind with a smile and said, “Would you please be able to help my colleague, Arvind, you know a lot about these things don’t you?” The officer turned out to be his uncle.

Four years have passed since his fath’s death and still today not all the journals have been read. There is a respect that Arvind reserves for his father. Perhaps he will read them all one day when he is ready. In the meantime he has kept his promise and has taken care of his grandmother, visiting her every day, taking her for her medical appointments, making sure she has everything she needs. She is old now and her mind slips in and out of the past and present as they converse, but they still find comfort in each other’s company. It was her blessing that encouraged Arvind to complete his father’s written request.

As Arvind says, when you’re small, your dad is your hero, he’s handsome, he’s smart, he’s strong. When you’re a teenager, you hate everything about him. When you’re older, much older, you realize what a good friend you have in him. And when he’s gone it’s too late…

Arvind says today that if he had known who his father was as he is beginning to understand now, he would have insisted on crashing down the barriers between them. He would have confronted him, knowing now what he didn’t know then. He would have reached out for his father’s lifeline as it passed fleetingly within his grasp. What he possesses today is a testament in writing .Though the journals can never replace words that were never spoken, as they were all his father was capable of, they will have to do.

Maybe this true story can be a call to those of us uncertain of our father’s love. A call to act now while there is still time to write a living journal together. If not, let it be some comfort for those of us who know that a “living journal” will never be written, or found.

<B>Angela KEESSOONDYAL</B>