When sons grow up, and fathers grow old

Growing up, the only good thing about papa’s fondness for पैर दबवाना was the sound of his snoring as soon as I lay my hands upon his feet. If the loud announcement, चलो बेटा पैर दबाओ, of his arrival home from office was the death knell, the snoring was the sound of freedom.

When I was a kid, every time Papa came back from office - ebullient as ever, his face lit up with a smile at the sight of his nuclear family – he would deliver the death knell, without fail, in his characteristic baritone voice that echoed all around the house till it reached my hiding spot and demanded that I appear before him. 

As per ritual, he would quickly change into his shorts, lie down on the bed, and shake his feet vigorously while looking up at the ceiling, the smile getting broader in anticipation. Sometimes he would croon आओ आओ बेटा पैर दबाओ repeatedly while his head bobbled sideways in an eerily Indian fashion, in rhythm with his feet. That was the ultimate signal. Firmly glued to the chair by the bedside, I knew the good old अरे पापा…. in a pleading tone was my last resort. Those two words always worked. Without letting his smile flicker, he would do my job of completing the sentence by inserting a lame excuse at the end – something like अरे बेटा पढ़ाई भी तो करनी हैI Far more rarely he would guilt-trip me into leaving the chair by following up his request with अरे बेटा बाप के पैर दबाने से आशिर्वाद मिलता हैI in a singsong, jovial tone. Persuasion was never his intention, and I always went back to my chair after पैर दबाना for a few seconds, maybe minutes on a bad day. Soon, he would be snoring regardless of my actions.

As I sit on the same chair today, I notice the plaster on the walls is chipping off; plans of whitewashing never did materialize. The once-dazzling copper vessel from which papa still drinks water now has streaks of black; he says it’s good for health. The ceiling has dark patches I’d never noticed before, though the fan looks stainless from the daily wiping. The CD music system which was once brought into the house with much fanfare now lies covered with a white cloth; I like that about my house, we don’t throw things out. We bury them with honour, in plain sight.

Papa’s return from office today is not marked not by his loud, baritone voice. There is no voice at all, except of the door knob turning in his hand as he enters the room while I sit on the chair inside. He catches me off guard. It strikes me that it’s a ploy to catch me before I can find a hiding place. For a moment I think of rushing to my favourite hiding spot out the back door. But there’s no need. This isn’t a ploy. The death knell died a long time back, somehow it’s the first time I notice it.

The smile is still there, as heartfelt as ever, only less wide. The ritual begins – he changes into his shorts and lies down on the bed – but doesn’t conclude with the old crooning and shaking of the feet. It concludes in stillness and silence.

I don’t quite know why, but I leave the chair and offer पैर दबानाI The intent is honest, though I speak the words hesitantly. I should know the offer is one he can’t refuse, but it’s a first for both of us, so there’s that awkwardness off the bat. Papa doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. Maybe he thinks this is a joke, or I have turned into one of those children who demand disproportionate favours in return for meagre ones. Whatever he thinks, within three seconds he says हाँ हाँ बेटाI The feet shake again, and the smile broadens.

It’s been years since I did पैर दबानाI This time I fail to clutch his feet in the usual circumference of my hands I have grown so used to; I have to reduce it - maybe my hands have grown bigger, but his feet sure look thinner. The moment I increase the pressure, he asks me to slow down; maybe I have grown stronger, but he sure has grown weaker. As my hands move down his long legs, the skin on them feels much looser than before. It’s hard for a son to accept any ugliness about his father, but the wrinkled skin around his toes doesn’t give me a choice. Years ago, I used to lightly pull at the jet black hair on his legs during पैर दबानाI. He liked it. Now, I have to look hard for jet black hair to pull at. The wristwatch Papa is wearing slips down his left arm far more easily than it did as he raises the arm to put it behind his head; legs, arms – he’s shrinking. The decade-old thing he still wears to bed is now the youngest thing permanently attached to his body.

I hear a faint बहुत अच्छा बेटा, खूब आशीर्वाद मिलेगा before it trails off into a snore. It’s still the best thing about पैर दबाना , but this time I don’t run away.