The half-eaten cardamom

Few people get bless with natural talent of writing and saroor is one of them. She is among my must read blog. 3 days ago, she wrote one of her finest post. It was about her father. I could not resist asking her to allow me to reproduce here. With her kind permission.


The half-eaten cardamom

"My father was an exceptionally clean man. I have yet to meet a man who gives as much attention to personal hygiene as my father did.

During the summer months, Abi used to shower twice; once before going to work and once just before bedtime. In the winters he showered once only which seemed a little odd to us. Till his last day he only wore clean and pressed night suits, never repeating them on a second night in a row. Just before retiring to bed he would brush his teeth till his gums bled and would apply a little cologne, massage his hands with a good moisturizer and comb his hair. At times we made fun of him because he always got ready for bed like he had actually woken up. Abi’s pet response was, “you never know who might visit you in your dream. Better be ready than sorry!”

If in case we ever caught our father in the morning before he could dash into the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth, he only spoke in sigh language. He liked tea and after every cup he had half a cardamom to freshen his breath which was carefully placed in his saucer. Sometimes I would wash his trousers only to discover his pockets full of soaked cardamoms which he carried around in his pockets. There were always some in the breast pockets of his night suits. He had some in his briefcase and even the wallet!

Aly tells me that giving Abi’s body a bath was the easiest he had ever done. Abi had showered an hour before his death. There were no food remains in his stomach. You could still smell Paco Rabban on him. After washing his hair Aly used Abi’s comb to brush back his hair just like he liked it – parted on the left side.

I didn’t go upstairs into Abi’s room till two days after his death. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle my loss. And I couldn’t. I clung to his dressing gown which lay lifeless on a chair just like he had taken it off a couple of hours before his death, and broke down until I collapsed and my tears dried. On his dresser was the cup of tea he never drank, but in the saucer was a half eaten cardamom.

That cardamom is now nestled safely in a locket that I wear around my neck, always. The left over seeds have disappeared but my father’s memory lives in a hollow papery shell of a half-eaten cardamom".