A picture in contrast
There could not be a bigger contrast in my life as I was with my father who passed away a few years ago. He was tall and fair complexioned while I am short and dark. He was exceptionally handsome with beautifully chiselled features as the photos of his younger days in my house testify. I am actually ugly with a pock-marked face skillfully camouflaged by a dyed beard. He was a naturally gifted sportsman, having captained the Punjab soccer team in the mid 1950s; I always struggled for a place in the team at NDA-Khadakwasla, despite working hard. He was extremely sociable and well connected, while I enjoy my solitude, despite spending my professional time as a helicopter pilot, flying politicians and other so-called celebrities.
My father was a great man who lived without any fear or tension in the world. In fact, till into his sixties, he could easily defeat me in the friendly arm-wrestling contest. The gazelle-like body and the erudite mind were both devoured slowly and painfully by Parkinson’s disease. I received a lot of condolences and affection from a wide circle of his friends. One of them, Col MS Shergill, had played football with him at the state and university level. We spoke often on the phone but had never met each other. As my father’s junior by two years, he hero-worshipped him. I promised to meet him in Chandigarh.
We did meet at his Chandigarh residence, where he narrated the stories of their association in youth and dug out old black-and-white photos of the bygone era… small anecdotes about my father which actually meant the world to me. How the football team of Panjab University gulped down a bottle of rum when my father was declared the captain. That was the age of innocence. He lovingly narrated how my father, apart from being the best player, was also the most handsome. The clapping in the separate women’s enclosure at that time during a match would reach a crescendo when my father had the possession of the ball.
We laughed and cried in equal measure. It was time for me to bid goodbye. He hugged me long and tight at the gate and said in a choking voice, ‘Don’t mind my saying so, but when I was expecting you today, I hoped to meet a replica of Mohan. But you don’t have even one bit of his personality.’
Well, Shergill uncle… while the Almighty does not create persons like principal Mohan Singh every day, the genes have a tendency to strike back. I have been blessed with a son who resembles his grandfather in most ways.
