My birthday was a day of reflection, gratitude, and a quiet reckoning with what getting older means. As I look back, I find myself returning to one of the rare, treasured memories of my dad, a man I lost too soon, yet who set the foundation I continue to build my life upon.
From my father’s hand, I learned that the right thing may slow your steps, but it strengthens your soul.
I lost my dad when I was 5 years old. It was during my 1st standard half-yearly exams. I remember being picked up from school mid-day and rushed to Vellore CMC following his passing.
This specific memory is from a little while before that. I must have been 4 or 4½ years old.
At that time, my mom and the entire extended family were stationed most days in Perundurai Sanitorium hospital visiting my grandfather, who had been admitted there.
Ours (my mom’s side) is a huge family who loved to laugh and lived to love their lives. Fun-loving bunch we are, and my mom, being the last of thirteen kids, was their eternal “Lakshmi Kutty” who never knew sadness or seriousness. When we were all in one place, it was a GVR family party, regardless of the location, be it a hospital, home, or temple. We stood together and laughed harder at life itself, sometimes finding joy even in the smallest things.
So naturally, that’s where I wanted to be that day, and I was restless. I suppose I had to go to school that week and my dad to work. He was quite the popular person, an English professor at Vasavi College in Erode, as well as an NCC officer with additional responsibilities he could not skip.
That day, he and I were returning from Erode and had just gotten down at the bus stop. The walk to the hospital was long, and I was restless, irritated, and missing my mom. I remember asking him every minute:
“Appa, innum evvalavu neram aagum?” (அப்பா, இன்னும் எவ்வளவு நேரம் ஆகும்?)-Dad, how much longer will it take?
He was known to be a very patient man. He patiently responded each time:
“Idho inge dhaan, seekarama poidalam.” (இதோ இங்கே தான், சீக்கிரம் போயிடலாம்.)-Here it is, we will be there soon.
Picking up his pace, probably just as eager as I was to join his wife and family, he walked faster toward the hospital. I was on his left hand, and I do not remember a bag on his right, though memory fades so perhaps there was one.
It was a long walk from the bus stop to Grandpa’s ward, at least half a mile. The road, picturesque with tamarind trees on either side, offered cool breeze and shade from the hot sun. But I missed my mom too much to notice. Very restless, crying and pleading, I urged him to walk faster. He did.
But imagine my surprise when he stopped midway and walked toward the side of the road. My child’s mind screamed, Now what, what is he doing?
There, a weak elderly woman sat by the roadside, calling out to him and asking for help in a feeble voice. Her gestures spoke louder: folded hands, anxious, lost eyes. I do not know to this day what her story was, or how she ended up in that condition. She was far from home, did not know how to get back or which bus to catch, and she could not read. Perhaps she had accidentally gotten off at the wrong stop, far away from her actual village.
Regardless of the backstory, the facts were simple: she was weak, vulnerable, elderly, and all alone.
I was still bugging him:
“Appa, polam pa…” (அப்பா, போலாம் பா…)-Dad, let’s go…
With a gentle but firm voice, he replied:
“Iru, evangalla pathuttu pona podhum. Help kekaranga illa pavam, appadi vittutu poga koodadhu.” (இரு, இவங்களை எல்லாம் பார்த்துட்டு போனா போதும். ஹெல்ப் கேக்கறாங்க இல்ல பாவம், அப்படியே விட்டுட்டு போகக் கூடாது.)-Wait, it is enough if we make sure they are okay. They are asking for help, it would be wrong to just leave them like this.
Those words pierced deep into my mind. I watched, wide-eyed, as he picked up her bag. The elderly lady’s eyes were welling with tears of gratitude, such relief washing over her. She kept repeating:
“Neenga nalla irukanum thambi, enna mattum en oorla viturunga thambi.” (நீங்க நல்லா இருக்கணும் தம்பி, என்ன மட்டும் என் ஊர்ல விட்டுருங்க தம்பி.)-You should live well, brother… just drop me at my village, brother.
My dad reassured her:
“Sari ma, sari ma, kavalapadatheenga. Naan pathukaren. Seekarama poidalam.” (சரி மா, சரி மா, கவலைப்படாதீங்க. நான் பார்த்துக்கறேன். சீக்கிரம் போயிடலாம்.)-Okay ma, don’t worry. I will take care. You will reach soon.
The same “seekarama poidalam” he had told me a few minutes earlier, but this time to comfort the one who needed it the most.
Right across from the sanitorium entrance was the nearest bus stop, a half-circle cement thinnai. Grandma sighed with relief seeing people seated there.
We waited with them for quite a while. I was no longer restless, or crying, or asking Dad “Eppo polam?” (எப்போ போலாம்?)-When will we go?” The urgency I had before was replaced with the contentment of having done the right thing.
The grandma still held onto my dad’s hand. They spoke about her family, how she got there, how she was alone , things I could not grasp then and which remain irrelevant now. I was truly humbled and in awe of the power of compassion, kindness, and what it meant to be empathetic. I saw it first-hand: the need, the reason, the urgency, and our responsibility to remain kind at all times.
When the bus came, we waited until the rest of the crowd got in. Dad walked Grandma to the bus, and the conductor, recognizing something was unusual, gave her a hand helping her climb up the steps. She stood there, locking eyes with Dad again, fear, confusion, and hope mingled.
We too stepped into the bus, me still in his left hand, standing on the first or second step. Dad gave some money to the conductor for her ticket, asking him to take extra care with her, like he would with his mother, and ensure that she got off at the right destination.
The conductor promised both Dad and Grandma:
“Sir, naan pathukaren sir. Neenga kavalapadama ponga. Pattima, naan pathukaren. Bayapadatheenga. Paththarama erakki viduren payalathula. Seriya?” (சார், நான் பார்த்துக்கறேன் சார். நீங்க கவலைப்படாம போங்க. பட்டிமா, நான் பார்த்துக்கறேன். பயப்படாதீங்க. பாத்தரமா இறக்கி விடுறேன். சரியா?)-Sir, I will take care of it. You don’t worry, go ahead. Grandma, I will make sure you are safe. Don’t be afraid, I will drop you carefully at your stop. Alright?
Finally, a huge smile appeared on her face, knowing she was safe and homebound.
We said our goodbyes. On our way back to the ward, I don’t think we spoke. The feeling of restlessness was now replaced with a sense of purpose and a feeling of pride, having realized first-hand the power of compassion. Even as a child, I knew it would be my core tenet. One which to this day I hold dear and close to my heart.
And so, on this birthday, as I think about age and time, I hold onto this: titles fade, possessions change, but values endure.
For me, compassion became the foundation of everything.
What value sits at the foundation of your life?
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