Food accompanied with bucket full of commiserations arrived. I, being the prodigal daughter who returned home, was the cynosure of all sympathetic eyes. But they soon got tired of my monosyllabic replies and utter lack of interest in the grand mindless ceremonies of mourning. Some attributed it to my single status and tried shoving eligible bachelors down dad's throat. Dad though, seemed to have settled into his role of a grieving widower quite nicely. His account of mom's last days grew more and more colorful with each rendition.
Some tried talking medical consultation, morbid. I could feel the walls closing in, on me. "Breathe, breathe!” I felt claustrophobic, cloistered, trapped. And to top it I also had to tackle the burning rage inside me. If dad knew earlier, why didn’t he reach out to me? Surely he could fathom my pain, my confusion? Mom strayed, dad forgave and somehow it ended up being my private hell.
Any suggestion of my going back to the US was met with ominous sounding, "But we haven't finished with the mourning yet!"... "Run, Run" a voice screamed inside my head.
One fine day I just snapped. Made a few phone calls, picked my stuff, left a note for dad as he was away, organizing a satsang in honor of the departed divine soul - mom ! I wonder if he got the irony of it all, nevertheless I took advantage of the opportunity and rushed to the airport. As I fastened my seat belt, I felt unfettered, free, soaring.
Soon life settled into a familiar groove of home, hospital, and endless one night stands.
And then yet again the phone rang incessantly. Yet again it was dad. Yet again I thundered "dad!...", " I am dying Mandira. I will not make it this time" is all he said. The silence was thick enough to be cut with a knife. "I want to die in the comfort of my home, with my only child next to me. Hope you will consider a dying man's last wish"
It took me couple of weeks to pull a few strings and get a good position in a leading hospital, back home and move bag and baggage. I also made the arrangements for dad’s treatment to be moved in to the same hospital where I joined. It was obvious that even the best medical care wasn't going to save him. He just needed to be kept comfortable in his last days. Dr. Gopal, his attending physician, took us both under his wing, becoming our friend, philosopher and guide.
Dad passed away peacefully in his sleep one night. I performed all his last rites, just as he had wanted. I sold the house pronto; I couldn't bear to stay there any longer. I bought myself a condo, in the hippest corner of the town. Home and hospital became my two pit stops as I moved ahead with life.
 

The door clicked open, he was home early. I welcomed him with a bear hug and cooed "What brings you home so early honey?" Smothering me with kisses, he said, "How could you forget Mandira? It's my daughter's birthday today and I promised to take my wife and daughter out to dinner!"
His words hit me with a whiplash. Oh Boy! I am my mother's daughter aren't I? Did I forget to mention that I am Dr.Gopal's pet squeeze, his latest 'on the Go!'. Then again at least I don't have a daughter to scar for life.....