Baba was diagnosed with Focal Impaired-Awareness Seizures (FIAS), a form of epilepsy when he was six. An improper forceps delivery caused lifelong damage to his neurons. High doses of narcotic medicines and convulsive shocks from such an early age made him emotionally vulnerable. Social stigmatisation and alienation made his conditions worst. He left home.
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1995-1999. To my parents, it was the best of all times. They got married, were blessed with their child, and were having a fulfilling life in a faraway town together. But the happiness did not last long. The school he had worked at was going to shut down forever. Baba had to return to that home he never wanted to.
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Baba’s health collapsed; his age-old illness returned to its threshold. An episode of hospitals, medicines, abuses and heartbreaks unveiled. One day, he would slap me hard for no reason, throw away food and, another day, he would cry hard and hit his head hard on walls. For hours, he would lie flat on the floor senseless. As a child, I was clueless to grasp what was going on.
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As days passed, Baba recovered, relapsed and recovered again. But the memories gradually summed up into a hollowed existence that throbs inside me like an old wound ever since. On daybreaks, a fear of irreplaceable loss presides over. I rush to my parent's bed to ensure that Baba has survived another day. Nowadays, I spend more time on my long evening strolls. It is the same old path through the empty fields, silent groves, and abandoned ghats of our village- I used to walk on in my early years. And while strolling through, a dialogue is developing within. By reconstructing that chapter from my fragmented memories, I am trying to obtain answers to the queries little Soham could not speak of to anyone.
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And by journaling the journey, I am trying to find my solace.