I can't sleep. I can't sleep because there is a fog that settles over me often. It is not a cold, dense uncomfortable fog. It is more a longing, a pain in my heart for what or should i rather say who is there no more. It is a fog that envelopes me and transports me back in time, to a time when my father and Foi stilled walked this Earthly plane. And it is through this remembrance, this longing, that i wonder how different life would have been if Shabd and Simran would have met them. How blessed they would have been to have met my father and Foi.
I don't even need to close my eyes to see the twinkly in my father's eyes and the special way he would have smiled at his grandchildren. My father had a very special way of saying your name; his voice echoed your truth, as if his spirit danced a celestial dance with yours. Hearing him say your name was the most ambrosial melody you could ever imagine hearing him say to you.
My father was what one might call a "Baby Whisperer" - he had a way with children. Children were drawn to him, like the Pied Piper of Hamlet, his melodious voice, always a brim with love, moved children to aim higher, achieve more, keep reaching for the stars. Children gathered at his feet, sat on his lap and took comfort from his...his...his - oh what's the word - his himness! None embodied the words "I am that i am" more graciously then my father. I think it was because he understood children; their pure love, their sacredness, their frailty.
I am often saddened that my child will not meet my father. That he won't know of my father's magical love, of his generosity of spirit and of his immense strength. My child won't learn to draw cars from my father, neither will he learn to give change from the till from him. They will not go for long hikes in the mountains together, or munch on oven-baked samoosa's in the kitchen. They will not go for long drives together, and my father won't teach Shabd how to swim like a fish.
Yet, in many ways, i see my father in Shabd. It's in his smile and cleft chin! It's in the way Shabd wraps his arms around my neck to hug me. It's in his drawings and paintings and love for cars and speed. It's in his generosity of spirit.
I see it when Shabd consciously chooses not to hurt someone else's feelings. And in his love for music. In his curiosity that has no bounds. In his intelligence and love for the written word. I see it in those quiet moments, when Shabd is lost in thought. Mostly, i see it in how Shabd talks of Naru dada as if he were still alive.
In the perfect world, Foi would have been alive and proudly showing off to Jasu foi that her great grandchildren names, Shabd and Simran represent two fundamental elements of her spiritual path. She would also have shopped up a storm ensuring they both her great grandchildren had the very best clothing India and South Africa could offer. And my sister and i would regularly be receiving courier parcels full of Gujerati books, to teach to the children of course!
Like my father, her holidays would have been divided equally between Simran and Shabd - the two representing holidays in either Palma or Pretoria. And while in our homes, she would have daily cooked up a veritable storm of gathia, sakar para, puri, thepla, dokra and a whole assortment of Gujerati delicacies!
My father would have in all likelihood taken the kids swimming and hiking. The rest of their time together would have been divided between reading, story-telling (he was a great story teller) and an assortment of artistic adventures!
Like my father, Foi's presence in my sister and my homes would have brought to our hearts peace and a certainty that there is goodness and wholeness and pureness of love in this world.
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