By Lealyan Thawmte
The first memories I had of my father, studying for his medical degree in a neighbouring state, were of him carrying me on his shoulders during his occasional visit to the village ( as I held on to a box of sweets he had brought for me) with the widest grin in the entire village. I also vividly remembered the time he took me to the state capital and we went to the movie.
Splashes of colours and huge moving objects were all I could recall of the picture we had seen, and of course, the ride to the city and back by a bus.
My father was brought up in the unlikeliest of circumstances. A stray rabid dog bit his mother. She succumbed to the infection without the disease being ever really diagnosed or let alone treated. He was only five. To add to the tragic misery, his elder sister succumbed later from the same ailment. “Mama, in all her fondness and love for the poor child must have somehow passed on the deadly infection” - was how father surmised decades later. The tragedy, implanted in the subconscious mind of the five year old probably drove him to what he became - a doctor.
With grit and determination borne out of frustration, poverty and helplessness, he grew up under the care of his father and elder brother. An epitome of hard work and survival, grandpa brought up the kids despite enormous hardships and travails of life in the absence of a mother. The trio toiled, sweated and learnt.
While his elder brother opted for service in the army soon after attaining puberty, my father chose to study. The principal of the small primary school he studied at , a kind hearted man, spotted the talent and the fierce determination in the young boy and took him under his tutelage by letting him stay at his home. He grew up washing dishes, cooking food and other menial dosmestic tasks to finally finish high school with flying colours. It was a long and windy road, but he had arrived.
After finishing his medical internship, he was posted to a district hospital a few kilometres south to his village. A then small town, it was relatively short of doctors and my father had his hands full. People would knock at odd hours of the night requesting, pleading that a patient is dying and he should come. He obliged all and one.
And all those years, I’d never saw or knew him refusing to visit or look at a patient, with a customary “Come in the morning.” - a doctor’s line - just because it was raining cats and dogs or 3’ am in the morning. Even now, as I reminisced, I can still hear the tinkling of his cycle bell as he returned home in the wee hours of the night, tired and exhausted, preparing for a sleep he knew would be disturbed by the early morning patients.
The quality I admired about my father is his compassion and his large heartedness. He never thought twice about not taking consultation fees from a poor patient. And so many times, as a child and growing up, I’d seen him giving money out of his own pocket so that the poor patient can buy the medicines he prescribed. Or, he’d ransacked his medicine tray for whatever he could spare from his physician’s sample.
He was always modest about it and his simple explanation was, “The poor soul needed it. I’m here to help and cure. Not to fleece.” Often, as he gave whatever he had to the grateful patients, I imagined his thoughts to be… “I’m motherless, but today I can try to save your child from being one.” I was proud. So proud of the kindness he’d shown to the poor and sick and needy.
Years later, he rose to head the hospital and the district he worked in tirelessly for more than ten years. One day, a poor patient from a distant village needed to undergo a surgical operation. The patient needed blood. The hospital was not equipped with a blood bank. There were no donors. Time was running out. The next morning, the local paper splashed “Head Of Hospital Donates Own Blood To A Dying Stranger.” That was my father. Never hesitating to help. Never asking why. Always owning up to his responsibilities as a doctor - and more importantly, as a human.
He was also generous to a fault. Every so often for no particular reason or occasion, he would throw a feast or a party for relatives. He would pick them up for the feast and dropped them after the sumptuous meal in his old and worn out official vehicle. The action was hardly reciprocated and as kids and growing up, it was our contention that the practice should stop or least be less frequent. It never did. He lived to give in ways he can, however small it may be.
My father was not a great man. No he was not. He was just another human being. He had his faults, weaknesses and imperfections. He committed errors and made mistakes. Like most of us.
But he was also a person who always appreciates the values of simplicity, generosity and the importance of love and acted out in the best way he possibly could. He was a workaholic, hated undue attention and travelling. Everytime he was required to travel on ofifcial engagements, he would try to avoid it. Sometimes he'd even purposely missed a flight. His simple explanations was - 'What do I, or the people I served gain by me going to these exclusive conferences and meetings?'
Once he was approached by some officials from the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare from Delhi as to whether he would like to go to a foreign country for a course/seminar, he'd replied, 'What will a course/seminar in a foreign country offer me other than what I'd already knew for the past 20 plus year as a doctor and CMO of my district. But if you feel that I needed a trip, thats up to you'. The offer never came again. And he was so relieved.
Besides his humility and rootedness, one of the greatest lesson he taught me was to be man enough to say 'I am sorry' if I am wrong. A bad liar, he could never be a politician nor a leader - though he may have learnt a few tricks on how to please em. But he was also a patriot in the truest sense of tribal guts and bravery. He feared no one when it concerns his people, neither an army or a gun at his face.
But I remembered him now, mostly for the enormous love he had inside him. The love he never stopped giving till his last breath. And I love him for just the way he was. His sense of justice. His take on life. His wild sense of humour, sometimes drunkenly relayed or provoking. But he was being just another human being - not trying to be perfect. But having compassion, care, love and all the feelings man are bestowed with. And never afraid of showing it.
And as he lay dying in a cold hospital room, he prayed for the last time the night before he paseed on. Not for his health or recovery, but for the family he knew he is leaving behind, the sons and daughters, and all his grandchildren whom he dearly loved. The family. His family.
Then he passed on the next morning.
Rest in peace Dad. Your prayers will be answered. We will be fine. Dad. We will be fine.
www.zogam.com
The first memories I had of my father, studying for his medical degree in a neighbouring state, were of him carrying me on his shoulders during his occasional visit to the village ( as I held on to a box of sweets he had brought for me) with the widest grin in the entire village. I also vividly remembered the time he took me to the state capital and we went to the movie.
Splashes of colours and huge moving objects were all I could recall of the picture we had seen, and of course, the ride to the city and back by a bus.
My father was brought up in the unlikeliest of circumstances. A stray rabid dog bit his mother. She succumbed to the infection without the disease being ever really diagnosed or let alone treated. He was only five. To add to the tragic misery, his elder sister succumbed later from the same ailment. “Mama, in all her fondness and love for the poor child must have somehow passed on the deadly infection” - was how father surmised decades later. The tragedy, implanted in the subconscious mind of the five year old probably drove him to what he became - a doctor.
With grit and determination borne out of frustration, poverty and helplessness, he grew up under the care of his father and elder brother. An epitome of hard work and survival, grandpa brought up the kids despite enormous hardships and travails of life in the absence of a mother. The trio toiled, sweated and learnt.
While his elder brother opted for service in the army soon after attaining puberty, my father chose to study. The principal of the small primary school he studied at , a kind hearted man, spotted the talent and the fierce determination in the young boy and took him under his tutelage by letting him stay at his home. He grew up washing dishes, cooking food and other menial dosmestic tasks to finally finish high school with flying colours. It was a long and windy road, but he had arrived.
After finishing his medical internship, he was posted to a district hospital a few kilometres south to his village. A then small town, it was relatively short of doctors and my father had his hands full. People would knock at odd hours of the night requesting, pleading that a patient is dying and he should come. He obliged all and one.
And all those years, I’d never saw or knew him refusing to visit or look at a patient, with a customary “Come in the morning.” - a doctor’s line - just because it was raining cats and dogs or 3’ am in the morning. Even now, as I reminisced, I can still hear the tinkling of his cycle bell as he returned home in the wee hours of the night, tired and exhausted, preparing for a sleep he knew would be disturbed by the early morning patients.
The quality I admired about my father is his compassion and his large heartedness. He never thought twice about not taking consultation fees from a poor patient. And so many times, as a child and growing up, I’d seen him giving money out of his own pocket so that the poor patient can buy the medicines he prescribed. Or, he’d ransacked his medicine tray for whatever he could spare from his physician’s sample.
He was always modest about it and his simple explanation was, “The poor soul needed it. I’m here to help and cure. Not to fleece.” Often, as he gave whatever he had to the grateful patients, I imagined his thoughts to be… “I’m motherless, but today I can try to save your child from being one.” I was proud. So proud of the kindness he’d shown to the poor and sick and needy.
Years later, he rose to head the hospital and the district he worked in tirelessly for more than ten years. One day, a poor patient from a distant village needed to undergo a surgical operation. The patient needed blood. The hospital was not equipped with a blood bank. There were no donors. Time was running out. The next morning, the local paper splashed “Head Of Hospital Donates Own Blood To A Dying Stranger.” That was my father. Never hesitating to help. Never asking why. Always owning up to his responsibilities as a doctor - and more importantly, as a human.
He was also generous to a fault. Every so often for no particular reason or occasion, he would throw a feast or a party for relatives. He would pick them up for the feast and dropped them after the sumptuous meal in his old and worn out official vehicle. The action was hardly reciprocated and as kids and growing up, it was our contention that the practice should stop or least be less frequent. It never did. He lived to give in ways he can, however small it may be.
My father was not a great man. No he was not. He was just another human being. He had his faults, weaknesses and imperfections. He committed errors and made mistakes. Like most of us.
But he was also a person who always appreciates the values of simplicity, generosity and the importance of love and acted out in the best way he possibly could. He was a workaholic, hated undue attention and travelling. Everytime he was required to travel on ofifcial engagements, he would try to avoid it. Sometimes he'd even purposely missed a flight. His simple explanations was - 'What do I, or the people I served gain by me going to these exclusive conferences and meetings?'
Once he was approached by some officials from the Ministry of Health & Family Welfare from Delhi as to whether he would like to go to a foreign country for a course/seminar, he'd replied, 'What will a course/seminar in a foreign country offer me other than what I'd already knew for the past 20 plus year as a doctor and CMO of my district. But if you feel that I needed a trip, thats up to you'. The offer never came again. And he was so relieved.
Besides his humility and rootedness, one of the greatest lesson he taught me was to be man enough to say 'I am sorry' if I am wrong. A bad liar, he could never be a politician nor a leader - though he may have learnt a few tricks on how to please em. But he was also a patriot in the truest sense of tribal guts and bravery. He feared no one when it concerns his people, neither an army or a gun at his face.
But I remembered him now, mostly for the enormous love he had inside him. The love he never stopped giving till his last breath. And I love him for just the way he was. His sense of justice. His take on life. His wild sense of humour, sometimes drunkenly relayed or provoking. But he was being just another human being - not trying to be perfect. But having compassion, care, love and all the feelings man are bestowed with. And never afraid of showing it.
And as he lay dying in a cold hospital room, he prayed for the last time the night before he paseed on. Not for his health or recovery, but for the family he knew he is leaving behind, the sons and daughters, and all his grandchildren whom he dearly loved. The family. His family.
Then he passed on the next morning.
Rest in peace Dad. Your prayers will be answered. We will be fine. Dad. We will be fine.
www.zogam.com
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