The decree absolute was pronounced in May 1989, dissolving my marriage and closing a chapter I had once envisioned lasting forever. Two months later, I relocated to a scenic penthouse at Swan Yard in Lancaster, hoping it would serve as a refuge where I could rebuild my life. In an unexpected turn of fate, my next-door neighbour was Arthur, my former physical education teacher during A-levels. Arthur and his wife, Eva, both former Welsh sports champions, embodied the vitality and enthusiasm I had come to admire. Their readiness for spontaneous adventures forged a friendship that seemed destined to endure. As part of my effort to embrace new beginnings, I bought Gunmetal Golf GTI with personalised 362 PG plates a yuppie car that mirrored the modern, rejuvenating essence of my new home. The optimism of this fresh start carried me forward — until October 25, 1989.
That evening, after a win in a gruelling high court trial in Manchester celebrating, I stepped into a soothing power hot shower, hoping to wash away the day’s stresses. However, my peace was abruptly shattered. While I was towelling off in the dead of night, my landline rang, its chime piercing the silence. Shanta’s voice, trembling from Atlanta, delivered a blow to my heart: “Achachen, I have bad news… Papa passed away from a heart attack. About half an hour ago, at Kozhencherry Muthoot Hospital. I’m leaving in three hours. Are you coming?” Her words struck me like a tidal wave, leaving me breathless and reeling.
My instinct was to call Janet, despite our divorce months earlier, because in moments of crisis, she was the one I still sought. Yet, my hand hesitated over the phone, paralysed by a maelstrom of emotions. Just as I was grappling with this turmoil, the phone rang again — Elaine, a friend from Manchester, was checking on my arrival. She was aware of my lingering feelings for Janet and listened with understanding as I shared my grief over Papa’s death. Her support helped me through that agonising night, and as dawn approached, I felt compelled to run. I laced up my running shoes and hit the pavement, pushing myself until exhaustion dulled the sharp edge of my sorrow.
In the early morning, I made urgent preparations —informing Arthur and Eva, rescheduling my appointments at Whiteside and Knowles law firm and navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of obtaining an Indian visa. The Indian embassy's demands were exasperating: “What proof do you have that your father is dead? Show me the telegram.” The absurdity of having to validate my grief to a disbelieving official in London was nearly unbearable. Yet, as the eldest son, I had duties to fulfil. I meticulously gathered every document to substantiate my claim, and after what seemed like an eternity, I was granted the visa and booked on a night flight to India.
Upon my landing in Trivandrum, Papa’s old Padmini was waiting outside the airport — a poignant reminder of my last visit to Kerala with Janet, where Papa had driven us around with pride. Now, however, the car was driven by someone else, and my brother Tom awaited me with tears in his eyes. As I took over the wheel, the absence of Papa at my side was a stark reality. Tom recounted the tragic details of Papa’s final night: how Papa had felt discomfort after dinner, reassured Jimmy, his loyal dog, that he would return soon, and how he had died in a wheelchair as the hospital staff fumbled for the ICU key. The sheer negligence and indifference of it all fuelled a cold, simmering anger within me.
Arriving at our family home in Thekkemala, I was met with an overwhelming sight — mourners lined the driveway, and the air was thick with grief. The moment I stepped out of the car, a chorus of wails erupted, but it was my mother’s embrace that finally broke through my stoic facade. Her tearful words, “First Janet, now your father,” unleashed a flood of tears I had held back for too long. As I wept in her arms, Jimmy’s mournful howls echoed our collective sorrow.
The task of organising the funeral was Herculean. My uncle handed me a comprehensive list of tasks: notifying the church, securing the attendance of bishops and priests, arranging transportation, and ensuring every detail was perfect for the ceremony. It felt like coordinating a military operation, with no room for error. Armed with £10,000 I had brought for the expenses, I navigated the black market to ensure everything was prepared on time. Every transaction and arrangement was imbued with the urgency of honouring my father’s legacy.
That night, exhausted but restless, I lay in the bed I had once shared with Janet, haunted by memories of our time together. Elton John’s “Sacrifice” played on my Walkman, its lyrics amplifying my sense of loss. Unable to sleep, I set out on an early morning run through the chaotic Indian traffic, trying to shake off the overwhelming emotions that threatened to engulf me.
The day of the funeral arrived, demanding every ounce of strength I could muster. The bishops and priests, resplendent in their ceremonial robes, arrived to conduct the service with the solemnity and grandeur fitting for Papa’s stature. The church, with its two large framed pictures of Jesus and St George, created an atmosphere of solemn reverence. The sight of Jimmy, whining softly at the edge of the room, was a poignant reminder of Papa’s enduring presence in the lives of those who knew him.
The service also involved dressing Papa in his ill-fitting suit from the Globe Silk Store in Kuala Lumpur, which had been tailored for him at the same time as mine. It was a vivid link to the past and a symbol of his enduring presence in our lives. As the service began, I was struck by the raw, open expressions of grief characteristic of this eastern tradition, so different from the reserved, almost stoic funerals I had become accustomed to in England. There was something profoundly cathartic in the ritual, in the incense-laden air, and the chanting that filled the room. I wished Janet were here; she would have understood the depth of what I was experiencing. The arrival of a condolence telegram from her just before we left for the church was a small but significant comfort, reminding me that she had not forgotten the bond she shared with Papa.
The funeral procession to the church was a moving spectacle — a muscled man pulling the glass hearse, followed by a procession of mourners, with traffic halting in respect as we made our way to the church atop the hill. At the church, the service was a final farewell steeped in tradition, culminating in the symbolic act of laying a white silk cloth with a cross over Papa’s face. My hands trembled, and tears flowed freely as I felt the weight of my grief, my love, and my duty as his son.
Lowering Papa’s coffin into the family tomb was a moment etched into my memory. When the ropes slipped and the coffin’s lid came undone, I instinctively jumped into the grave to fix it, joining my father in his final resting place, if only for a moment. It was an act of love and respect for the man who had been my guiding star, my toughest critic, and my father. As I climbed out of the tomb with the help of Tom and my uncles, I knew I had fulfilled my last duty to him — ensuring he was laid to rest with the dignity he deserved. The journey had been long, painful, and filled with challenges, but it had also brought me a measure of peace. As Papa had said at the end of our last conversation, “Somehow, I reached the shore.” Now, it was my turn to find my way back, carrying with me the memories, the lessons, and the love that would forever bind me to him, no matter how far I travelled from home.
Philip George is a former badminton player and author of the book 'Racket Boy'. He lives in Tuscany, Italy.
