Today, exactly one year ago, was the first day of my life without my hero, my idol, my guru, my mentor, my guide, my debating partner, my critic, my drill sergeant, my commanding officer, my captain, my taskmaster, my close friend, my dreaded enemy: my father, being alive.
I miss you Baba.
And no, time does not heal. Our family knows this more than most. Time only makes it more difficult to talk about it. The pain remains, buried deeper and deeper every year, more and more personal, more and more private, until it just becomes part of you, just like how an amputee gets on with their life and forgets that they are a limb short, not because time has healed it, but because they are simply used to doing without.
72 was too young to die. But then, if there’s something I have learnt from you, it is this:
“There’s a never a right time to live or wrong time to give; there’s no ideal age to marry or weight of baggage to carry; never the perfect moment to become a father; never the perfect plan to go into battle; you’re never too old to fly nor too young to die. If you wait for the moment or hope for a heads-up for life or death to happen, you’ll miss most of the fun. Don’t wait for the world to be ready. Go when you are. It is always perfect.”
Yes, Baba. It is always perfect.
