Goodbye again — Part II of II
I have had many goodbyes. Goodbyes to my family, friends, pets and places where I belonged once. My goodbyes have evoked both sadness and joy. Some resulted in temporary changes, and some were permanent. I came to terms with the changes, loneliness, and adventures my goodbyes invoked.
Among them, I said goodbye to my parents, more than anyone else. That itself was a sweet blessing.
Read Part I of this two-part story first.
A few months after I arrived in Dubai, I got a letter from a close friend in Sri Lanka. It carried devastating news that shocked me to the core. It was about my younger sister; she had eloped with a much older man.
The news broke my heart. I had many hopes for my beautiful sister. It turned out that she had been manipulated into a clandestine affair with this man. At his behest, she had been forced into a marriage, that too as a minor at sixteen years, unknown to my family. The next day after she turned eighteen, she eloped with this scheming man. She has had no choice. It was one of the darkest moments in my life. I wanted to comfort my parents and kid brother, but back then, one could not travel immediately. There was also no easy way to call them.
I knew my sister’s life would never be the same. It was a very sad goodbye to my only sister. I cried that whole night, about my loss, alone, without my parents, who were more than 3000 kilometres away. My pillow was soaking wet the next morning.
It was the biggest calamity and crisis my devastated parents and kid brother faced. They were yet to inform me of this dreadful event as they struggled with the terrible pain they were going through. My friend’s caring letter came earlier before their letter.
This enforced goodbye changed my family’s lives forever. My kid brother was only thirteen. I was not there at my parents’ dark hour.
A few agonising months later, I visited my parents in Sri Lanka. Our home was never the same without my sister. I could not fall asleep the first night at home because my sister and I shared the same bedroom. When I left them at the end of that holiday, it was a sad goodbye to my parents. Our family was not going to be the same.
I determined to make up for my family’s loss by loving my parents and kid brother even more. I visited them every six months in Sri Lanka. I sent my entire salary from Dubai to my father to be used in any way he liked. I wrote to them twice a week. I encouraged my talented kid brother to study. I bought him everything he needed as a teenager, clothes, a chopper bike, and everything electronics from Dubai. He had many things no other kid in our neighbourhood had. I spoilt my parents and brother with everything they needed, sparing no expense. I tried hard to make my parents happy. It was my way of making up for the devastating goodbye to my sister.
Over a decade passed by. Now I was in my early thirties and established myself in Dubai. Now I was married, with three little kids. I was in a management role in technology at a global bank. Life was comfortable. It was great pay, and many other corporate perks. My employer paid for everything. Saying goodbye to Sri Lanka a decade ago was paying off here in Dubai.
But Dubai was no place to raise your kids. I wanted them to grow in a free country with equal opportunities. Money and perks would follow me wherever I go. So I chose to migrate to Australia, a sunny and free country.
Leaving my well-paying job, I left Dubai with my young family, three kids under six. It was a brave move despite the risk. Choosing lifestyle over money. I had no regrets about saying goodbye to Dubai. On the contrary, I looked forward to the change, dreaming about my young children’s future.
Twenty-five years after I left my parents and ten years after I said goodbye to Dubai, I visited Sri Lanka. I left my family in Australia to spend a fortnight with my ageing parents. I wanted to spend quality time with my father. My father rejoiced in my visit, taking time off from his post-retirement job to be with me. He received me at the airport and took me home, just like when I was a youngster arriving on holiday from Dubai.
I did not inform any friends of my visit to Sri Lanka, wanting to spend the entire two weeks with my parents uninterrupted. The schedule belonged to my father in any way my parents liked. My two weeks in Sri Lanka belonged to them. It was my way of spending quality time with my caring parents.
I accompanied my father in visiting his friends and relatives from both sides of our family. I attended the local church with my parents and shopped with my father. At our family home, my father loved seeing my kids’ photos on my laptop and listening to my stories of them growing up. We both watched TV together and continued many political and engaging conversations, just like in the old days before I left Sri Lanka. We enjoyed a beer or a drink before dinner. After dinner, we talked until I fell asleep. I felt so close to my father during those days. A seriously enjoyable time.
It was the time of my father’s life. He was so proud of me in public; whenever we met friends and relatives, there was this glee in my father’s eyes, seeing his now mature elder son’s gratitude for spending quality time with him.
On the sixth day of my arrival, I attended a neighbour’s funeral with my father at our local cemetery. I asked him to show me the grave where his mother, my grandmother, was buried, and he obliged. That night, before we slept, we planned our activities for the next day to visit his mother’s ancestral hometown some seventy kilometres away.
Around midnight, my mother and I got up to the noise of my father coughing. He was not feeling well. I felt hopelessly helpless, not knowing how to respond to a family health emergency in Sri Lanka, where I had not lived as an adult. I immediately summoned my helpful neighbour and took my father to the hospital in his vehicle.
In the vehicle, my father rested on my body quietly. He did not speak. We did not travel far when my beloved father breathed his last on my lap. I felt his final breath, although I refused to comprehend and believe what had just happened.
Yet, I took my father to the hospital, where the doctors tried to revive him, but his heart did not respond. Oh! My God! My world came crashing down on me in front of my very eyes.
I had never expected that my father would be no more one day. He was my role model, and I had not planned for a day when he was not by my side. Although I lived some 8000 kilometres from him, I was so connected to him in my soul. He was my God. I felt anchorless and helpless in this world.
My sorrows aside, I had to be brave for my poor mother, my father’s soulmate for life. Also, my younger siblings. I called my brother in Canada and my sister, giving them the heartbreaking news. Then, I came home and hugged my mother, giving her the terrible news that her beloved Thomas was no more. My mother was brave as always but heartbroken.
My father was buried in the same grave as his mother; my grandmother was buried. Some three thousand people came to say farewell to my father and about forty-five Christian clergy. I knew my father was popular on many levels of society, but the extent of his popularity and connectedness baffled me.
This was one of my hardest goodbyes. Sad it was for me; it was also one of the happiest for my father. His last week was full of joy, doing the things he liked in the company of his eldest son, whom he moulded to be the best person he could be. I am so fortunate that I could give my father a happy goodbye by spending his last days with him, doing things he liked and having great conversations with him. That was my goodbye to my father.
After my father’s death, my mother k charge of her life after a short period of mourning and took care of our family properties, rentals, finances, and other matters. She was a self-managing and independent widow. I ensured my mother’s well-being without her anchor, my father. I travelled to Sri Lanka almost annually to spend time with her and assure her. I spoke to her regularly every week.
My mother did not like too much interference in her life, even from her children. She refused to have live-in help or maids instead of relying on helpers to do daily duties. However, she was a determined woman and ran the family affairs diligently.
My mother died peacefully, some ten years after my father died. She did not suffer from any significant sicknesses. Devout Catholic she was, she prayed to have a peaceful death in her own home. She got all that; her death was in her sleep. My mother, just like my father, had a good end. Her God kept that bargain. My sister, who lived in Sri Lanka, was not too far away and had fortunately paid her a regular morning visit.
I immediately flew to Sri Lanka while my brother arrived from Canada for her funeral service. Despite my sadness, I had no regrets. I had taken care of my mother as best as I could.
We buried our mother in the same grave as her soulmate; my father was buried some ten years earlier. It was my final goodbye to my courageous mother, who raised me to be a disciplined man.
Your eldest child leaving home is a terrible experience for any parent. When my eldest child decided to enrol in a university some 200 kilometres away, it was my turn to let go. I vividly recall how sad I saw my eldest leave home. My heart stopped seeing her drive away. I felt empty. It was one of the many goodbyes to my four kids. Just like my parents let me live my life at a young age letting me go. I did not think much of what my parents felt when I ventured out as a youngster. As a father, I had learnt the art of letting go and saying goodbye now.
Now I understood the art of goodbyes.
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