| Published on 13-09-2007 In General | | Viewed 2694 times | | Written by
T. S. V. Hari | 
September 13 2007, 0030 hours…
Aniket Rangnekar felt tired and emotionally drained. He had returned four hours ago after consigning his father – 55 year old Preetam to the flames.
The relatives' commiserations had been a blur of lip sympathy and empty words.
But for a brief moment of grief when lighting the funeral pyre, he had felt no pity for the man he was about to cremate.
Preetam's innards had been corroded by lifelong abuse of hard liquor, smoke, guilt and self pity. Then his health had deteriorated resulting in a coma that lasted exactly 27 days.
Death, in fact, in short, had been deliverance.
Aniket's mother Sheelu was sleeping fitfully hugging his younger sibling Aasha.
To shrug off his feeling of emptiness and divert his energies, Aniket switched on the computer and began checking his emails – something he hadn't done for over a week.
Aniket had been on leave for the past fortnight so he didn't expect to answer any official messages.
It was too early for friends to send in their condolences. After all, his father had died only a few hours ago – technically – yesterday afternoon. Most of Aniket's friends were abroad.
When he logged on to his Yahoo account, the computer told him that he had 62 unread messages.
As the inbox opened, he was intrigued to find a message sent 27 days ago but had reached him only yesterday.
The sender had identified himself by a single letter "p".
Initially, Aniket was scared that it could be a virus sent by some killjoy.
But his firewall was so strong that if it was a virus, it would have been killed instantly. What was more; Yahoo had an inbuilt safety mechanism to delete all such messages.
Aniket clicked on the message and was shocked to find that he was addressed by his nickname.
"Aniks!
When you read this, I would be beyond help.
I am more or less certain that you would have even cremated me.
I know you still hate me.
But I am coming clean after all these years – sharing my personal thoughts with you – something I never could during my lifetime.
Wednesday, August 15 2007 – that is today's date which also happens to be the 60 th anniversary of your grandparents' marriage.
Having nothing better to do today, like everyday, I was surfing through Hindi satellite television channels – nursing a stiff drink. As always for the past 12 years, my XXX Rum hardly had any dilution.
I expected to be pretty sloshed by dinner time grab a few morsels of food and pass out for the night.
I will take you back to 12 years when you were still a schoolboy opening the batting for your school team and stroked freely – terrorising all the bowlers that sent down deliveries meant to be menacing. Even today I remember you hitting Rishi Sharma – who later played for the India's one-day team as an opening fast bowler – so effortlessly for three huge sixes over mid-on, square leg and a beautiful hook over fine-leg.
In fact I learnt a lot about cricket after watching you play.
But then, this isn't about cricket or you.
You may remember that I had quit the chemical company which denied me my rightful seniority, raise and promotion as a manager.
I had vowed that I would one day be bigger than them.
Believe me, I tried.
With my inside knowledge, I began making deals buying at bargain basement prices, cutting corners all the way and did several dirty deals.
Since I knew all the crooks in the business and their personal weaknesses I converted my weakness into a strong point.
Life progressed from one watering hole to another.
Throughout my married life, your mother Sheelu had always looked down upon me for two reasons. Firstly I was earning less than her and secondly I needed strong sundowners to forget the fact.
While I admired you, you only had contempt for me.
I can't say I blamed you because who would want a dad, who had been a failure for long anyway?
At that point in time, your younger sister Aasha had just started trying her hand at ballet dancing. I could see that she had a great future.
During all those verbal duels at home which I lost, without your knowledge, Aasha would give me a kind, understanding glance, nod her head with sympathy and look away, unable to see the hurt in my eyes.
I remember that evening – October 10 1995 – it was a Tuesday – when I took all of you out to dinner.
Even now I remember the scene in Sarovar Restaurant next to the Kandivli railway station.
All of you wanted to know the reason.
When you were having Cassata ice cream for dessert I remember myself saying, "All of you thought I was a waste of time rotting in my liquor didn't you? Now I have news for you. I have turned my so-called weakness into a strong point and done dozens of deals with its help. We are now richer by Rs.8 lakhs!"
When I made that statement, Aasha looked at me in open admiration, your face registered a mild satisfaction that I had come up trumps once in life but my Sheelu was unmoved though I discerned a tinge of awe in her voice.
"All that is fine, Preetam," she had said. "But what would happen if you start abusing your weakness for alcohol further and turn into a full blown drunkard?"
I thought I detected concern in her voice.
"Nobody is perfect in this world, Sheelu! I know my limits and how to turn my handicap into huge profits. Before long, we will shift from our modest flat into a bigger, more lavish affair. And when I do that, I will create my own little bar at home – complete with all varieties of imported spirits. Sitting cheek by jowl on the shelves will be bottles of Cardhu Malt, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet, Laphroaig, Bushmills, Cutty Sark, Famous Grouse…"
Your mother had cut me short.
"You should consider an alternative employment as a vendor of liquor. You seem to have an excellent taste and memory for names of good whiskeys. But you know, you should have started the list with Royal Salute," she said with sarcasm dripping from her voice.
"Well, I do have a bottle of Royal Salute, snug in its velvet bag sitting at home, right at this moment. And I am going to celebrate my success tonight with it," I had said gamely.
"Please make sure you use the spare bedroom," your mother had remarked testily and left the table.
I had tried to make it up to the rest of you by spending virtually 70 percent of my windfall in refurbishing our flat.
But your mother and you were unmoved.
The anger born out of that rejection resulted in my drinking more. It was supposed to help me strike more deals. The effort was also supposed to be a protesting comment.
Instead, slowly the deals petered out.
When I realised that my old employers were working their way around most of my friends were forcing them to use me like a credit card – whose dues were never meant to be repaid – it was too late.
While my business almost disappeared, I was stuck with a half a bottle evening routine.
I was still making an odd deal occasionally – which mainly paid for my drinking habit.
But, my life had degenerated into one long binge.
Your maternal uncles – all of them upwardly mobile businessmen – tried talking me out of the weakness and it made me mad every time. I got drunk after every such session.
I noticed today that my bank balance was down to Rs.19000 and change.
There are no deals in the offing.
So, at best I may be able to drink and smoke for a month.
But, what will I do afterwards?
Neither you, nor your mother will ever support my needs for liquor.
My own siblings had already disowned me and you know it.
I was stuck.
It was at that moment that I absentmindedly pressed the button on the remote-control of the television. It took me to a channel that showed old Hindi films. I heard the immortal Kishore Kumar's voice soulfully reflecting my life-story.
"My life was useless to everybody
Just like shade from deadwood…"
The lyrics gave me an idea.
I unsteadily walked to the computer in the bedroom, flicked it on and began reading information on the net that would have looked like good background material in a presentation made to clients.
Two hours later, I was done.
I briefly went out, completed a small chore and got what would be my last drink and have begun drinking it neat.
You were out of station away in Nagpur. Sheelu was away at work. Aasha wasn't expected to return home till late in the night from college after her dance practice.
I had a clear 12 hours' start – to do what I wanted.
Then I began composing this email to be read you only when it would be too late.
Probably you don't know that alcohols made in India can be set into two broad classifications.
The more widely produced stuff is the industrial variety.
Called rectified spirit, its diluted, coloured and flavoured versions are sold in India under various brand names as whiskey, brandy, rum, gin, vodka and so on. Beer, which has very low alcohol content, is different, but we are not discussing that now.
The other type is meant purely for non-potable use because it is extremely poisonous.
Some of them can be mildly intoxicating immediately after ingestion. After consuming one of them, the human body's digestive tracts convert the lethal liquid into highly toxic metabolites responsible for acidosis, blindness, and potentially death.
Corrosive liquids such as these are always a challenge for doctors who try to revive patients who have partaken this because laboratory tests, antidotes and intensive care facilities are not always available. Further, such poisonings can be relatively difficult to diagnose when a specific history of ingestion is not available. Diagnosis requires both clinical and laboratory data. This was to be absent in my case because I would not be able to talk or explain my actions by the time I am discovered.
Let me give you a few more details.
These spirits are readily absorbed from the guts. Peak serum concentration usually occurs in 30-60 minutes following oral ingestions. At the maximum, only 3% of such lethal doses (say 1000 ml) can be excreted unchanged through urine.
The rest will continue to corrupt the human system and eventually kill the person who drinks it.
Antidotes are available, but most top Mumbai hospitals do not expect their patients to come in after drinking this kind of stuff. Initial symptoms of such poisoning may become apparent only 12 hours post-ingestion. However, the maladies caused by such abuse manifest themselves usually 24 hours later. These include intoxication, drowsiness, confusion, and ataxia, as well as weakness, headache, nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain. Collectively, these symptoms may mimic an alcohol hangover and may be presumed to be mild intoxication.
Slowly these symptoms would develop into shallow respiration, cyanosis, coma, seizures, electrolyte disturbances, profound hypotension and finally cardiac arrest. Apart from all this, this kind of abuse would result in loss of memory, confusion, stupor and coma before a painful death.
People who have tried to commit suicide in this fashion have survived but only as human vegetables. I absolutely have no intention of being one.
One such deadly poisonous alcohol is methanol.
It is also called wood alcohol (some even refer to it wrongly as varnish).
So, a piece of dead wood called Preetam will be consumed by spirits born out of wood.
Though I have pretended otherwise during life, I have great faith in the Karmic system.
Save for a brief interregnum, I only lived for myself – enjoying my cynical drinking and smoking habits – for no apparent reason.
Now I know it was all a criminal waste.
During these last hours of my consciousness, I have realised how much I ought to have admired your mother – because she not only kept the home fires burning but also put up with a huge disappointment in the form of her husband, the snide remarks that came her way because of my drinking habits and suffered silently.
In twenty five years of marriage I have got you – a self made man on the up and up and Aasha who has learnt to stand on her own legs even as they daintily tread a ballet measure.
When I am gone, I do not want either you or my wife to recall an entry in our family's balance-sheet which said that I had spent a small fortune to refurbish this flat.
Eventually, I will be violently sick and discovered in a helpless state.
Knowing your mother and you, I am sure both of you will end up spending almost what I had spent on this flat to save me.
But that effort will go in vain.
So the books will be balanced.
What is more, during the attempts to save me, I will suffer as one by one all my organs will start failing.
My ordeal could last for a couple of weeks.
Through my self-inflicted pain and suffering as a consequence, I want to exhaust all the punishments that ought to come my way during this birth, even if I have to die a thousand deaths everyday.
If there is a rebirth, I would like to be reborn as your son and win your love.
Sorry for all the trouble.
Goodbye!
Your loving father, Preetam."
The computer told Aniket that the email had been sent with an embargo to effect its reaching him a little over a week ago.
"Had I opened it a week back, I may even have saved pa," Aniket told himself under his breath.
Preetam who was sloppy during his life had turned a meticulous man when he planned his death.
His research was correct to the last word. He turned blind and slowly his lungs, liver and kidneys failed.
As the old man had predicted, none of the doctors had managed to diagnose the cause of Preetam's malady. He stayed in bed with tubes emanating out of his nose, throat and chest. He also suffered from bedsores. In short, he was a mess.
Sheelu had fought on gamely – trying to save a man who was determined to die. He eventually did so a few hours back.
The priest at the cremation grounds had explained the mantras.
"Your father's soul has already left his body. Now we are offering his mortal remains to the elements – to release it from earthly bondage. It is the duty of every son to do this to his father – especially if he is the only male heir. Before consigning your father's body to the flames, please remember that you were born out of it. That is one truth that can never be altered as long as you are alive…"
The priest had droned on.
The speech's import hit Aniket now. He had destroyed a piece of his personal, living history.
"Go in peace, pa! Knowing you after you are dead, I know I missed a great parent. I take your leave till we meet again."
Aniket logged out and shut down the computer.
At that precise moment, his personal mobile rang.
"Is that Aniket?"
It was an unknown strange voice.
"Yes, it is."
"I am Samiullah Khan."
"I am afraid, I don't know you."
"You don't. I am your father's bookie. We once worked together in the chemical factory. Both of us were given a raw deal. I changed my profession and became a bookie. I was at the funeral. But I didn't want to tell you about this there."
A knot of anxiety began forming inside Aniket's stomach.
"What is it?"
"Your father always placed small bets on cricket matches and always won. Precisely 27 days ago, he made a bet that Zimbabwe will win against Australia in the 20Twenty World Cup and placed a bet for Rs19000. The odds were very good because nobody expected the team to win. Yet it did, humbling the strongest cricket team in the world. But Preetam did something more. He also wagered that if he died on the same day as the match, his winnings ought to be doubled. Since he was so full of life, I took the bet as a joke and syndicated it. Now, the earnings have aggregated to a whopping Rs.18 lakhs. Could you please come to my office and collect the cheque please? Here is the address…"
A stunned Aniket noted down the address as tears began streaming down his face.
In one stroke, the old man had turned the tables on life, squared his accounts during his accounts and yet earned a sizeable sum and even died for it, Aniket realised and began the exercise of waking up his mother and sister to reveal that his pa hadn't been a loser in the final analysis. |
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