Eulogy for a Storyteller
On his birthday.
Dear Baba,
I knew the day you brought Jack London’s White Fang home, it was meant for me. I loved the story so much. I remember how loyal White Fang was, how difficult it was to tame him, how he became something other than what he was meant to be.
You brought Crinkleroot to our lives. “I was born in a tree and raised by bees” said the title. I remember Crinkleroot more than I remember Hagrid, despite having encountered the prior character when I was much younger. Crinckleroot was much cooler, and I remember days turning the pages away, re-reading the same story, not ever getting tired of what he had to say about the natural world around him.
Sunkesari Rani. How can I forget her? I did forget the larger plot. I have tried recalling her story, I have tried remembering what you told us about her, I have tried matching my memory of your story of her to those found online, but they rarely match. You had a way of having us mesmerized by your diction, by the way you held your pauses, at the right instances, to then deliver the twist, for us to gasp, for the Gods to witness our amusements.
पट-पट-पट-पट पटरिङ्ग, बुढो गोरुको बाह्र सिङ्घ।
The way you clicked your ट like makai dancing on a haadi, the way you elongated the ङ before landing the ग, the way you moved your fingers in front of your bowed head to become बाह्रसिङ्घ himself. You were your characters and your characters were you.
They will never know how good of a storyteller you were, Baba. I wish I remembered more of your stories. But there are no regrets, you raised us with such grace, such beauty, such heartfelt love, and with the kind of sacrifices that good men make for their children and their children. The quiet kind of sacrifices. We rarely acknowledged them, but we saw you make those choices.
I know you were lonely in you last days. To see the world deteriorate around you. To see the society that you cared for so deeply invalidate your moral knowledge. I know that you held long and hard before the inevitable.
Your passing is hard to understand. Hard to justify. Difficult to get used to. But the kind of beauty you saw in the world, we hardly can grasp. Your view of the world was full of conviction that humans can always be better than their past, that there is always space for deep care, and that patience is a necessary precondition for the greatest form of love.
You have raised beautiful children. You have raised eight beautiful grandchildren. And you have loved your wife more than the Gods love their devotees. Or the devotees who love their Gods. You have gone above and beyond what any of the sacred texts profess.
You told me stories I will never forget. I might not write a story about you but all my stories are possible because of you.
Sunnelai sun ko mala.
Bhannelai phool ko mala.
Yo katha baikuntha jala.
Bhanne bela khuru khuru aaijala.
Your dear nati,
Ishan
