Holding hands

Today, while I was driving down Blaney Avenue to pick up my son at close-to-noon time, I saw the usual sights, many automatically overlooked due to the monotony of seeing them many times, every single day. As I drove past the beautiful Calabazas park, I saw the regular groups and pairs of people walking and running, getting fit despite the cold and dreary spring day! I looked wistfully at them, wishing I had their commitment to keeping themselves healthy. And then, there were the Indian parents, who venture out at this time because it usually warms up around noon. They are easy to pick out, (Indians of our parent's generation) because of their clothes: the gentlemen dressed, well, like gentlemen. Neatly pressed, tight polyester shirts tucked into neatly creased dress pants, topped off by a sweater and new walking shoes. The ladies, in their starched saris or salwar-kurtas, woefully inadequate sweaters, shawl/muffler covering their heads and upper bodies...and yes, the new walking shoes! I look at them wistfully too....

So, it was the usual sights I saw today on my way to school, except for one. My breath caught as I saw them; an elderly gentleman, slightly bald, and wearing a familiar, brown, oversize sweater. Walking with him was a young lady, her palm tucked into the gentleman's elbow. I couldn't resist swiveling quickly to look at their faces, I shouldn't have. A father and daughter it seemed. My heart squeezed painfully, my throat choked up with hot and angry tears...why Appa, why did you have to go away?

As far back as I can remember, I have always walked with my fingers curled into the inside of my dad's elbow. My father liked to walk, a lot. He would make us walk to the cinemas, to the circus, to restaurants, to the bazaars...it was a given, if we went out with Appa, we walked. And I always walked holding on to his elbow, my little fingers bypassing his proffered index finger, for the warm crook of his elbow. Through my growing up years, it did not matter where we went, I just automatically latched onto my father's hand. As I grew taller, and as he slowly lost vision in one eye to Diabetes, my grip on his elbow strengthened. When his feet started getting frequently infected, I held on to him wherever we walked, slowly, quietly lending him support. Or so I thought, until one day, he only half-jestingly asked me whether I was helping him or dragging him down, a gentle reminder of my support becoming burdensome. I didn't care, I needed to hold his hand, I realized.

My Appa and his grandson (my older son) holding hands!

Over the years, my father's hand became to me, a metaphor for gentle, strong and reassuring support. My father was an unassuming man; gentle, compassionate, and just a fantastic dad to my brother and I. Whenever the bottom fell out from under my feet (which happened quite often) my father was my knight in shining armor, he was always there to pick me up, his gentle, reassuring hands letting me know that all will be okay. When Appa visited us here in the U.S for the last time, in the Fall of 2005, we went on many walks together. He in the oversize brown sweater I had given him long ago, and a gray muffler surrounding a balding head, my hand tucked securely in his elbow, guiding, stopping, and pulling him along. One day, we had returned home from shopping and I was dropping him off at home before rushing away to pick up my son from school. He had just gotten out of the car and closed the door, and I quickly pressed the button to close the windows, not noticing that my dad's fingers were trapped between the glass and the window. He yelled for me to lower the window and I just froze, only noticing my dad's beautiful finger nails turning an angry red and then blue. Only then did reaction kick in and I lowered my window just in time to hear my dad exclaim angrily "Thank goodness! Or you would not have had a hand to hold in the future!"

Appa had beautiful hands and feet, my own look ungainly and klutzy in comparison. He had elegant fingers, long, tapered and slightly bent, his fingernails perfectly carved by nature...I always thought they were wasted in a man. As his cold body lay on the living room floor I wanted to touch no part of him, except for his hands, his fingers, especially his extended index finger which I so callously rejected in favor of his elbow. I kept whispering to his lifeless form, "What a waste Appa, what a waste!"

I miss going on those walks with you Appa, I miss holding your hand.