My father passed away a dozen years ago. I often have dreams about when I was a child in India growing up in a big joint family house (Paritosh). The dreams of my house and my father range from him playing cricket with us in the central courtyard or in the garden, teaching me accounting and math, counseling me and my siblings about various sporting activities that we participated in (swimming, badminton, skating), talking to extended family members about politics, business of family affairs on Sunday mornings, eating lunch in the common dining room with his brothers and their families, etc. etc..
I have fond memories of him and Paritosh. I dream about my father often. It makes me happy and sad at the same time when I wake up from these dreams. It makes me happy that I was with him in my dreams even for a short time. It makes me sad that it was only a dream.
Today in my dream, my father had just passed away and my mother was cleaning out his desk. I was sad during the dream. I remember my father sitting at his desk scribbling something or the other with his prized Parker ink-pen from the 1950s. I remember him standing in front of Shreenathji’s picture every morning for a minute or two saying his morning prayers. It was right next to here portraits of the four of us (Amiben, Sheelben, me and Naman) hung on the wall. These are fond memories that have scarcely faded. They will last forever.
Coming back to reality, my left leg still hurts. Each day brings slight improvement, but recovery remains slow. I’d like to restart my training by doing easy workouts soon. It would not be wise to start running or biking just yet. Maybe I will go for my first swim since the Ironman tomorrow.