Four, but let's call it ten.
- Akanksha Kapoor
- Jun 11, 2023
- 5 min read
On Daddy's 10th death anniversary, I relive my life's worst day.
Ten years ago, on my Facebook profile:

I remember the 24 hours that preceded this one. I was working in Mumbai, and the day had just been bizarre. I had a regular day at the office, but somehow decided to buy fresh fish for the first time on my way home. A friend at work offered to help because I really didn't know which fish to buy, or how to clean it. This was odd. Why couldn't I just buy cleaned fish from a meat shop like a regular newbie? At the time, I didn't ask myself that question. But in hindsight, I know that I did this because it's what my father would have done. An odd whimsical adventure, just because my heart desired it, even if for a fleeting second. Next, I took the fish home - cleaned it a bit more, marinated it, popped it in the fridge for the perfect dinner. But in two hours, I didn't want to eat it anymore. My stomach was sinking, I didn't feel good. At the time, I didn't ask myself why. But in hindsight, I know that this was because in another city, unbeknownst to me, my father had lost his appetite. My father had had a routine hernia operation a few days ago, a benign and quick procedure common for men his age. Everyone said he was okay. Everyone, even the trusted doctor at a huge renowned hospital who saw him for a check up just a couple of days ago. "It's the heat, stay well hydrated and rest up. You'll be okay." My father went home, and began his journey to the end. My mother called me to say he wasn't eating anything - not showering, not changing his clothes. We didn't ask him why, at the time (or maybe we did, and he didn't tell us). But in hindsight, we know it was because he didn't want to seek help for basic things like changing his kurta. But he couldn't do it on his own anymore. Taking a chartered bus to work (about 30 km away) on Friday. Unable to walk to the washroom on Monday. I told my mum to hand him the phone. He didn't sound like himself. He said no to me no matter what food I offered. "Meetha toast, Daddy?" "Ok. I can have meetha toast." Meetha toast, aka French toast, one of the Kapoorisms. A vibe more than a dish of bread milk and eggs. Mumma made him French toast. I don't think he ate much of it though. She knew not to ask why. Back in Mumbai, though, I was proud of having unlocked the secret yes from Daddy, and glad he was going to eat something. Didn't know it would be his last meal though. And yet, here I was, huge dish of marinated fish in the fridge, and no appetite to even touch it. I decided to go to bed early that night. I just didn't feel good on the inside. It must be the heat, I thought, as I lay down on my floor mattress in my humid 1BHK, but not before turning on my laptop next to my head. My laptop used to take more than 10 mins to turn on, and I was preparing, but I didn't know that at the time. I had no idea that my sister would call me at 1 am and say "Book the next flight to Delhi." I hadn't a clue that I would need my laptop to book flights, and I wouldn't have the luxury of those ten minutes at the time. I didn't ask myself why I was doing this. But in hindsight, I know it was because in another city, my father was dying. My mind and heart had truly separated in this moment. I genuinely didn't know. Because when that call did come at 1 am, my laptop may have been prepared, but I was not. I booked an 8 am flight - the 5 am one was too expensive. I told my sister and she said "No, you need to book the 5 am and leave for the airport now. Cost doesn't matter." Stomach sank, and I didn't ask her why. Nor did she tell me. But we both knew. I remember my conversation with myself as I packed a bag: "Probably need just a couple days' worth of clothes," I thought. "Oh gosh I don't have any white clothes!" "Hospitals are cold. Carry a jacket." That bag ended up carrying a rather strange set of clothes. Longest flight of my life. I land in Delhi and I am being received at the airport. What? Why can't I just take a taxi? This doesn't make sense but I go with it. The people receiving me are my sister's father in law and cousin brother in law. Odd. But I go with it. We exchange small talk. I ask if we are going home. "No, straight to the hospital." In hindsight, it's odd that I hadn't figured it out. Mind and body. Two separate entities. At the hospital, I call my sister for the room number. She says - "Meet me on the back staircase between floors X and Y." Weird as hell. Didn't ask why at the time. In hindsight, I know, ICUs and mortuaries don't have room numbers. We exchanged some conversation in that back staircase, but I don't remember it. I only remember losing any shred of irrational hope I was very clearly holding on to until then. I didn't know my father was dying until he died. I expected to meet him. To speak to him. What follows is a blurred sense of fact and fiction - I don't know if it's true that he twitched for the first time in 8 hours when he heard my voice. My cousin who was with us in the room says he did, but I don't know. I know that I held his hand, and told him it was okay to go. And off he went - in body at least. His mind stays, or so I tell myself. It's been 10 years today - and I still don't think it's okay he went. But at least at this point, I know that it will never be okay. The loss of a parent is like a shred of food stuck in your back tooth. Nobody can see it, but you always know it's there. And you can't let it go. I am grateful to have seen him breathe his last. I am grateful that he allowed my mum to care for him on his last night at home. I am grateful that my sister was right there with him, to hold him and take him to the hospital. I don't know if any of this could have been different. In the rage stage of my grieving process, I used to believe this could have all been prevented, but 10 years later, I have accepted peace. That no matter what, this ending would have been the same. I only wish that when we finally meet again, our journey together as father and daughter will also be entirely the same.
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