The Haunting Memory of Finding My Father, Lost to Addiction
Weeks of unanswered calls, neighbours' worried glances, a creeping dread. My heart sank deeper with each passing day he went silent. This wasn't new for Baba, not when the ‘nasha’ (addiction) took hold. But this time, the silence felt different, heavier. Breaking open that door felt like shattering my own hope. The stench hit me first – a thick, sickly-sweet smell of decay that ripped through my very being. Then I saw him. Not the Baba I remembered, but a bloated, unrecognizable form on the sofa, fluids seeping onto the floorboards. He must have been there for days, alone.
Years we fought his addiction, a tireless battle against a ghost. We tried everything – doctors, pujaris, rehabilitation centres, countless pleas and tears. He had moments of clarity, moments of promise, but the demons always dragged him back. And when they did, he’d disappear, cutting off the world, leaving us with our endless worries. What haunts me most, beyond the sight, beyond the smell, is the quiet ignominy of his end. No family gathered, no proper Antim Sanskar, no prayers for his journey because of the state of his body. Every funeral procession, every memorial service I pass now, a deep, crushing sorrow fills me. He deserved more. He deserved peace, a dignified farewell, not this lonely, forgotten decay. That smell, that vision, it's etched into my soul, a constant reminder of a life lost, and a family's silent suffering.
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