It was hard to see him slip away like that in that hospital room at Apollo. As Jagan and I waited outside the room for the imminent end, it was impossible for both of us to come to terms with the loss we were to experience soon. Seated in the chairs in the lobby, we talked about mundane things to distract ourselves, but emotions would overwhelm us and often one of us would choke mid-sentence. It was difficult to accept that my gentle, affectionate, and inspiring dad, who had guided and counseled me over the past fifty years would not be there much longer. Losing my appa was just a terrible, terrible feeling.
***
In Bhubaneshwar, appa took me in his scooter to get me admitted to a convent school. When we arrived at the school, we were told that I had to take an exam so they could gauge my readiness to join the first grade. Appa readily accepted, and I was led into a hall full of kids my age where I was pointed to a desk with a question paper. I jumped right into it; I did not have any problems with the English section, but I stumbled on a couple of problems in the math section. I was too young to understand that one could get a couple of problems wrong and still get admitted to the school. I panicked and started crying. That set off a lot of commotion in the exam hall as other kids saw the anguish on my face and started crying themselves. Soon, the nun who was proctoring the exam rushed out of the room looking for my dad. When he arrived and stood next to me, I told him that I was not able to answer a couple of the questions and might fail the test. I asked him if he could help solve the problems so I would be able to attend the school. He smiled and replied that he was not supposed to help me during a test but reassured me that I would still get admitted if I gave it my best effort. He walked out of the exam hall and I could hear him laugh with a few other parents who were waiting outside. After that pep talk, I felt reassured and completed the exam. I then succeeded and was admitted to the school and attended it for a year. Appa had made me believe in myself at an early age.
***
My chithappa, who goes by his initials, T.M.R., came to visit appa during his final hours at the Apollo hospital. T.M.R. recalled how much appa had loved Tamil books and poetry all his life. Every day after his bath, he would offer a prayer and sit in his reclining chair and read Ramayanam by his favorite Tamil poet Kambar. T.M.R. marveled at the fact that appa was like an excited schoolboy going out on his first field trip when it came to the Kamban Vizha (a festival celebrating the life of Kambar). He told us how Appa would get ready early in the morning, take his lunch in a box that amma had packed for him (“sapada kattindu office pora mari kelambiduvar”), and be gone the whole day to listen to Tamil scholars talk about his favorite poet! T.M.R. admired appa’s love for the Tamil language and his knack for drawing maximum pleasure out of the simple things in life.
***
I must have been about five or six then. Mr. Perianayagam was an eccentric man who happened to be Appa’s supervisor at the Postal Department in Bhubaneswar. He had this annoying habit of calling his subordinates late in the evening and talking to them about work that could easily have waited until the following day. But Perianayagam liked to remind people that he was the boss, and Appa resented this attitude of his. Late one evening the phone rang, but Appa was not home. I picked up the phone and said hello. I don’t think Perianayagam was expecting a child’s squeaky voice at the other end. He remained silent. I said hello again and demanded to know who was calling. Silence again. I displayed the patience and maturity of a five-year-old and let out the most ear-piercing “Cooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,” into the receiver and promptly hung up the phone. Nobody knew anything about the incident that night. Appa went to work as normal the next day but was soon chastised by Perianayagam for raising a brat who didn’t seem to have even the most basic sense of decency and decorum while answering the phone. He was livid when he walked into the house after work the next day. He caught hold of me and asked if I had screamed into the phone while talking to his boss. I defended my position. “I asked two times for the caller to identify himself, but the man never responded! I feel I gave him the response he deserved,” I said. I turned it around and made it seem like Perianayagam lacked the manners. Appa’s stern tone gave way to a gentle admonition asking me to not repeat such behavior in future. He could not bring himself to thrash me or even use a harsh tone to scold me! Luckily, I never had the opportunity to pick up a call from Mr. Perianayagam again.
***
I have visited my parents in Chennai every year since 2011. Much like Tiruvanmiyur paati, his mother, he showed genuine affection towards others. He was eager to hear about my family in Pittsburgh, and I was happy to share the activities that Keshav and Shriya participated in. He would enquire about Prema and my in-laws. I coached high school kids to prepare for the SAT exam at the SV Temple, and he was always interested to know how I was doing with those classes. He believed that destiny had brought my family to Pittsburgh and serve Lord Venkateshawara at the SV Temple. Two of his close relatives – Manavalan and Rangaswamy – served at this temple as priests. Prasad and Rupal were married at this temple, and now I got the chance to volunteer here. Appa often mentioned to me that I had answered a divine calling by relocating to Pittsburgh.
***
In April of 2018, Appa was admitted to the SIIMS hospital as his condition with Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus (NPH) had become progressively worse. I was at the Cleveland Thyagaraja Festival when I got the news. Prema and Keshav were part of the Choir that was to be performed at the Festival. They had practiced for many months to get ready for the performance. I promised Prema and Keshav that I would attend their performance but will have to leave for Chennai soon thereafter.

When I arrived in Chennai, Appa was not in the best of conditions. He was in a delirious state and could barely walk. Dr. Bapu, who was appa’s neurosurgeon, did not seem very optimistic about his chances of recovery. He put two CT scans – a recent one and another from a couple of months earlier – on a lit viewing box to see if anything had changed. To help improve appa’s condition, he had fitted appa with a shunt that was supposed to drain the cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) into his abdomen using a variable valve. “There is absolutely no change here,” he commented with a sense of defeat. His repeated attempts to open the valve wider to let more of the CSF drain out of his brain did not work. “We have two choices in this situation. One is the do a lumbar puncture and drain the CSF and reduce the pressure. The second is to put another shunt. At his age, I will not recommend the second option, but a lumbar puncture will have only a very limited effect,” he said. Jagan and I discussed the situation and decided to consult a couple of other neurosurgeons on the right course of action. First, we visited a doctor at the Apollo Vanagaram branch, who was also a faculty member at the hospital-affiliated medical college. He had an academic mindset and spent a lot of time talking to us about how difficult it was to treat a condition like NPH. He felt that given appa’s age (79), another shunt would be risky, and advised for us to go with lumbar puncture. Next, we went to the Kauvery hospital and met a neurosurgeon who was in his early 40s. He took a quick look at the CT scan and said that the shunt had been placed at an incorrect spot. “Unless the tip of that shunt is repositioned, the CSF will not drain properly and your dad’s condition will not improve,” he said. “But doctor, appa is almost 80 years old and we are not comfortable to have another brain surgery performed on him at this age,” I said. “Well, to you it might seem like risk, but to your dad it is loss of quality of life. You have to make the choice,” he replied, as a matter of fact.

Both Jagan and I were dejected when we walked out of the Kauvery hospital. I had developed an appreciation for the complexities on matters relating to the brain, but all that appreciation did not make things any clearer for me. In the end, we decided to go with the lumbar puncture procedure. After the procedure, he was discharged from the hospital and we brought him back to T. Nagar. We even held a small party on the 13th to celebrate his birthday. I returned to the US shortly thereafter, and to my surprise he made steady progress after the procedure and was almost completely back to his usual self despite the bleak prognosis from medical experts. I went back a year later to be part of his 80th birthday celebrations. Actually, all three of us brothers met in T.Nagar after a very long time to be part of the Sathabhishekam function. He repeated difficult Sanskrit verses after the priest and participated in the function with full vigor. Chooda Athai remarked later that his recovery was akin to a medical miracle!
***
Appa had the habit of bringing back small mementos from his visits to other states. When we were in Ashok Nagar, he had visited a temple town and brought back a beautiful statue of Lord Vishnu. It was a small, delicate piece made of granite and depicted Vishnu in a standing position holding a mace and a chakra. The statue also had a nice arch running over the Lord’s head. Appa unpacked the statue from his luggage and let us hold it, enjoying its beauty before placing it in the showcase in our small living room. The very next day, while our parents had stepped out of the house, Prasad and I attempted to play cricket in the living room with a makeshift wooden bat and a rubber ball. While batting, I had to face a nasty bouncer; I ducked and hit the ball over my head. The ball landed on the statue and took out the arch above Lord’s head which lay in three pieces. In a split second I had destroyed that beautiful statue. I panicked. Appa was prone to react to such carelessness with unbridled anger. On closer examination, however, it seemed like the Vishnu’s facial features and body were intact, but it was only the arch that had broken. I stood him up again and delicately put the three pieces back such that they locked into place and regained the shape of the arch. The cracks very barely visible anyway. No one said anything and we went back to our normal routine.

A few months later, when my dad’s colleague was planning to visit our place, Appa took it upon himself to clean the house and make it more presentable. He took out all the old copies of The Hindu from the center table, neatly arranged the chairs, and then took a duster to all the small items in the showcase. As soon as he touched the statue, the arch above Lord’s head crumbled into pieces and fell around Him. Initially he was puzzled, but soon realized that he had been duped by the seemingly normal arch that was broken. He was FURIOUS. He yelled at us and demanded to know who had broken it. We pleaded ignorance. And when Amma couldn’t contain herself and started laughing, he eventually yielded to the ridiculous situation and joined us with his own laughter.
***
It was a couple of days before appa’s death. I had an 8:00 a.m. appointment with Dr. Nambi, the infectious diseases specialist at Apollo Perungudi. He was direct, almost blunt, when he talked to me after observing appa during his morning rounds. “Your dad has a condition called neuropathy, where the patient loses much of his brain function. His cognitive abilities are severely compromised now, and any recovery would bring him back only to the baseline condition that existed before this attack. Things are not looking good,” he said. The next day, Dr. Anusha, a neurologist, told Jagan and me that they had administered colistin, a powerful antibiotic, as a last resort but had found no improvement in appa’s condition. “He has stopped reacting to medicines. It is time to let your family know about your appa’s condition and start preparing for the worst,” she said. That evening we drove to Jagan’s apartment in Venkatraman Street and called Prasad to give him the news. It was difficult for Prasad to receive the news, but he remained calm and accepting of the terrible news. He realized that appa had come to the end of his life, and there was nothing more we could do for him. Finally, at 7:40 p.m. the following night, we got the news that appa had passed away. Amma bore the news with peace of mind and dignity. I called Santhanam Chithappa and told him that appa had passed away and requested him to pass on the message to my aunts and uncles. We had to arrange for the funeral the next day.
***
Appa came rushing into the house at Ballard Estate (in Mumbai) with a telegram in hand. He had received news that I had secured a seat to pursue metallurgical engineering at the University of Roorkee. He was ecstatic. He was proud that two of his sons were going to be engineers. Due to a conflict, he could not accompany me to the campus at Roorkee, but by using his connections he had arranged for a postal officer at the university campus to help me with the admission process. Appa later came and visited me during the second semester of my first year at the University. I showed him around the campus, took him to the Civil Lines where we did shopping, and finally we walked up to the Ganga Canal, an aqueduct built back in the 1850s to bring water from the Ganges to irrigate the fields in and around Roorkee. It was considered an engineering marvel for its times. Appa was glad that I had gained admission into an institution of repute. He gave me a hug and said that he was proud of me. I saw him off at the Main Bus Stand and returned to my hostel room with a heavy heart. I was quite homesick and miserable that first year at Roorkee but didn’t want my dad to know that.
***
During my final year at Roorkee, I received admission into the Penn State University with scholarship. It was a big deal back then. I had gained a ticket to study abroad and that would change the trajectory of my life forever. I had already started dreaming about my life in the US. My plans and dreams were rudely disrupted when the US Consulate Officer behind the counter summarily rejected my visa application. I was dumbfounded. He told me that he refused my application for a visa because he felt that I would migrate to the US and not come back to India. That was exactly my plan, and I wondered why he found that objectionable. Both my parents were quite upset with this development. I had another chance to apply for the visa, and I tried to give it my best shot. I took a trip back to my university campus and got a letter from my professor, Dr. Subrata Ray, stating that I was a bright student and should be allowed to study in the US. Then my dad helped me transfer all his properties to my name on a stamp paper and get it notarized. The thought here was that the officer will understand that I have all these assets in India and will therefore have no interest to settle down in the US. I went back to the Embassy with a thick stack of papers, but surprisingly this time the officer was not interested in any of my documents. He reviewed my application, smiled at me, and approved it. Just like that the trajectory of my life was back on course! Appa was eagerly waiting for me outside the embassy. He was overjoyed when he learned that I was successful in getting my visa. He bought me the one-way ticket to Buffalo, NY, where Prasad was studying then, and gave me $800 to start my life in a new country. He was always very interested in my success.
***
I woke up early the next day to go to Apollo and claim his body. I knew that the emotions could easily overwhelm me if I let them, so I decided to remain stoic through it all. Appa was kept in the morgue under ice-cold conditions. He was covered in white from head to toe when he was brought out in a stretcher. They were ready to load him directly into the EMS van, but I asked for them to uncover his face so I could see him. Appa’s face was pale and expressionless. By the time we had brought him to T. Nagar, the word had spread, and a few relatives had already gathered in the house. We lay him on an Ice box and covered it with a transparent casing so others could see him. Santhana Chithappa, who had been close to my dad all his life broke down, and my Cuddalore paati, who could barely walk, and had to be brought to the first floor seated in a chair, cried uncontrollably on seeing him lie motionless inside that box. Jagan and I had to take a shower with our veshti, stay wet, and perform the last rites for my dad. Appa is not the religious type, but I knew that he would have expected all of us to be involved while performing his last rites. Jagan and I tried to do our best, and Prasad watched it on a video call from Miami. Soon his body was brought down from the apartment in the first floor and laid on the ground. The priest asked all those who were not planning to come to the crematorium to pay their last respect right there as appa was to embark on this last journey. A large garland from the Triplicane Parthasarathy temple was placed on him before he was loaded into the van. We had to perform another short ritual at the Besant Nagar crematorium, and Santhana Chithappa joined us in performing the rites. Soon, my cousins lifted his body and took it to the gas-fired furnace and pushed it in. We waited for a little over an hour, collected his ashes in an urn, performed the very last rites, and drove to the Besant Nagar beach where I threw the urn, along with ashes, over my right shoulder into the water behind me as I faced the shore. And just like that he was gone. Appa was not there to hug me anymore. But like he was of me, I was and will remain very proud of him for the rest of my life.

Mukund Narasimhan
28th May 2021