Читать книгу Under the Moonlit Sky - Nav K. Gill - Страница 8

I never really knew what the nurse said to my mother over the phone, or what she heard as she desperately clutched the receiver. All I heard were two words that kept replaying over and over again in my head as we burst through the doors of the hospital emergency room: “. . . terrible . . . accident . . .”

We later found out there had been a collapse at the mill. As his colleagues tried to explain the scenario, I sat quietly overwhelmed with disbelief and with fearful thoughts rushing through my mind. I only managed to pick up a few words that were being said. Something about a stack of logs, “Hit his head . . . trying to save our lives . . . very brave . . .”

These words became jumbled in my head, and I became even more confused. I was lost. I had no clue what I was to do, what to expect, or how I was to behave. All I knew was that the man I called “Daddy” was lying in a room, not knowing if he was going to live or die. Doctors were claiming that they could do no more.

The man that I had barely said two words to in months was now disappearing rapidly before my eyes, and I could only sit there, trembling with fear and plagued by memories of our past. I could feel the fear slowly taking control of me. The terrifying sensation made its way up from the tip of my toes, flowing up through my legs, then it was in my arms, my stomach and my chest. Soon I couldn’t breathe. I was silently drowning in fear.

I didn’t notice when my mother came out of the room and sat down beside me. Nor did I notice when my sister and her husband came running down the corridor. I only snapped out of my shocked state when my mother covered my hands with hers and said, “Esha, it’s time you spoke to him.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried a firm and urgent undertone.

I didn’t have the courage to look at her, but I nodded and patted her hands. I got up and slowly forced one foot in front of the other, making it through the doorway and finding my way to his bedside.

His hands were bandaged, and his face was badly swollen. It was an incredibly scary sight at first. He was marked by nasty cuts and bruises, and his body looked broken. As I studied his face closely, I could barely find traces of the man I knew to be my father.

“Daddy?” It was hardly a sound. Less than a whisper, but it was all I could manage at first. I held his hand and said it once more, trying hard to find my strength. “Daddy, it’s me, Esha. It’s your Esha, Daddy . . . Aren’t you going to open your eyes for me?”

I felt his hand twitch. He slowly moved his eyelids until he finally managed to open them. For a moment, I almost thought I saw him attempt a weak smile. Perhaps it was just a wince from the pain he must have been feeling.

“Daddy, do you hear me?” He nodded and tried to speak, but at that point the pain was clearly visible on his face. I hushed him softly and told him not to push himself. “You have to rest. Don’t try to speak.”

Seeing him in this state made our problems seem almost trivial, but I still could not forgive him. He very well could be on his deathbed, and the horrible truth of his past had kept us apart for months. So much time had been wasted between us.

“Daddy, there’s so much to say, yet I’m finding it difficult to find the right words.” He gently squeezed my hand, giving me courage to continue. “No matter the reason, I am sad that we have lost out on so many months together. Seeing you here like this, Dad . . . makes me realize how much . . . how much . . .” My words lost their strength, and I sobbed quietly. I now felt the enormity of the situation. He squeezed my hand tighter this time, but instead of just being an encouraging gesture, it felt rushed, as if he was trying to tell me to hurry. So I obliged. “Daddy, I realize how much . . . I love you and need you. I’m sorry, so sorry that I’ve shut you out of my life this past year. Please forgive me.” There, I’d finally said it. Moments earlier, I had been questioning whether or not I could forgive him for his secrets, and now I had just asked him to forgive me.

He opened his mouth to speak, and his pain was terribly evident. Despite my attempts to persuade him to stay quiet, he eventually found his own words through his pain. “Forgiveness . . . is what I must . . . ask for from you, my child. I have not been honest with you.” He squeezed my hand again. “Esha, there is much that I must say to you, and so little time. So I’m going to just get this out as quick as I can.

“The choices that you make when faced with a crisis determine just how good of a human being you really are. Remember that, child. I have made some choices that have affected my loved ones, my family. Were they the right choices? I don’t know. I suppose God will have to decide now, as I sense we shall be meeting very soon.”

“Daddy, don’t say that, please!” I cried.

“I never ever wanted to hurt you. You are my little princess. Always have been and always will be. I love you dearly. When you were born, I was so happy. People said to me ‘aw, another girl,’ but I was so proud. You were so beautiful, and you had such a peaceful glow in you. And I am sorry for the hurt that you have felt, all because of the choices that I have made. But you must understand the reasons that led me to those choices.”

With every word he spoke, his breathing became heavier, and I could see that he was struggling to remain calm in front of me. I placed a soothing hand over his and wiped the sweat off his forehead with my other hand. I looked deep into his eyes and tried to return his reassuring smile.

“I realize, child,” he continued, “the difficulties you have had and the hesitations you have demonstrated in accepting your identity as a Sikh, as an Indian. But this is who we are. You may say that you are not an Indian, but the truth is that I am. You may battle demons inside of you, refuse to accept that you are a Sikh, but I accept and recognize my religion. I have never tried to force it upon you. Rather, I have always secretly prayed that one day you would find your way to accepting it as a part of your identity.”

“Daddy, why are you saying this to me now? What difference does it make?”

“It matters, Esha dear. It matters. The way I have lived my life is a reflection of how important being a Sikh is to me. It is a way of life. It does not define who you are in the beginning, rather it helps you to find out who you want to become. It continues to guide you, until one day you can look at yourself in the mirror and embrace who you are. When you are able to embrace it in front of all others, irrespective of the outcome, then you will have fully embraced your identity. Be proud, Esha, and live without fear.”

“Is this how you rationalize your choices?” I questioned with a hint of sarcasm, which I immediately regretted.

“Call it what you may, but it has been my chosen way of life. It is what I see to be right and just.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re not making much sense, Daddy. Forgive me, but I’m having a very difficult time understanding how this ‘chosen way of life’ has led you into having two families. The absurdity of it makes me want to yell to the world that my whole life has been a lie! Dad, it’s a total soap opera, one that I never thought would become a part of my reality. How in the world does someone rationalize that?”

“No one can, my princess, no one. But at the same time, you are not completely correct when you assume that this tale has become part of your reality.”

“I don’t understand.” I lowered my gaze as my eyes welled up with tears again, and I shook my head. “I’m tired with all of these lies and half-truths. Please, just tell me straight, what is the true story behind this family in India and their connection to you? I have to know.”

“Listen to me carefully now.” His discomfort was becoming more and more evident now. His breathing became heavier with every word. “I know your mother tried to tell you the truth. She was bound by a promise that I forced her to make years ago. Despite what you have heard and what many have been led to believe all these years . . . I was never the rightful husband, nor the biological father to the family in India. I simply . . . answered . . . God’s call.”

My mouth went dry as I became numb. In the few moments of silence that passed between us, I tried to absorb what he was trying to tell me, but it made no sense. I tried to react, but all I could muster was, “What?”

“That is the truth, Esha. And . . . all I can do right now is seek your forgiveness, and in time, your understanding.” He closed his eyes, and my heart skipped a beat as I feared the worst, but he kept speaking. “God will now help me to see whether my choices were in fact right or wrong, but I keep my faith . . . I love you, my princess.”

He opened his eyes again and gave another weak smile. I returned his affection with a kiss on his forehead. “Daddy, I love you.” My voice croaked, and I looked away, fighting back the tears. This was getting to be too much.

My mind was racing with so many contradictory thoughts. First, I’d been led to believe that the family in India belonged to him, and now I was being told otherwise. I’d spent a year being angry with him, and now I was frustrated. I couldn’t deal with it, because here he was, lying before me all bruised and broken and talking about his faith in God and his identity as a Sikh. What the hell was going on? I had so many questions for him, but he was too weak for a long discussion. In the meantime, I was going crazy. I had to get out. I needed air.

“Daddy, I’ll see you a bit later. I’m just going to go get some air.”

As I let go of his hand, I had a strange feeling that I was letting go of a part of me. I could sense an empty feeling creeping up from within. I turned and looked at him once more from the doorway. This can’t be it. Surely, I’ll see him again. Don’t be so scared, Esha.

Taking a deep breath, I turned on my heels and walked out the door. I tried to focus on happier moments to come, like bringing my father home and making up for lost time. I convinced myself there was still time. Life couldn’t be that cruel. Could it?

Later I realized that life has a mind of its own. It doesn’t pay any heed to the ways in which we try to convince ourselves that we have control over it. I wanted more time, because I wasn’t ready to let go of my father. I thought I had it.

He never came home from the hospital, and we didn’t make up for lost time. I never saw my father breathe, smile, talk, or open his eyes again. He passed away in my mother’s arms. She soothed his pain and watched him go. Where was I? When my father needed me most, I wasn’t there. Instead, I was out in the parking lot secretly having a cigarette, convincing myself that I had more time, because I wasn’t ready to let go. The more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t decide whether life was cruel, or I was.