The Greatest Lesson My Dad Taught Me: Never Complain

He was sober, suave, strong, and simple. Devastated by a paralytic stroke that also took away his eyesight, he remained bedridden for his last 18 years and never complained. Whenever anyone came to inquire about him or his health, he would acknowledge the “blessings” of the Almighty without ever complaining about his suffering or his condition.

I grew up hearing him say “Shukar Hai” (thanks to the kindness of the Almighty) from my early childhood until he passed away six weeks before I turned 20. He never lost the verve to live a happy and contented life.

He followed his routine meticulously. Disciplined to the core, he never compromised, nor did he allow his disabilities to impact his day-to-day life.

Healthy and smart, a wrestler and horse rider in his younger days, he was still very strong. At times, I would jokingly test his hand grip. Invariably, I would fail to get my hand out of his grip, saying, “Darji, tussi puranian khurakan khadian” (Dad, you have grown up on old healthy diets), and he would laugh. For almost two decades, he was not allowed any sweets or fried food.

His food had little or no salt. A cup of milk with two homemade biscuits, followed by an apple or an orange between breakfast and lunch, was all that he would have until noon. At 7 in the morning, after he had finished his recitation of “Nitnem” (Gurbani) and listened to the morning broadcast from the Jalandhar station of All India Radio, he would have a cup of tea. Because of a paralytic stroke, high blood pressure, and blindness, my mother was very careful about his diet. He was very particular about taking his daily medicines on time.

He never liked anyone helping him with his routine activities. Invariably, he would get up at 4 in the morning and use the wall of his room to guide himself to the washroom. After his morning bath, he would return to his bed, change into a fresh shirt and pajama (they had to be properly ironed), and then tie his “Saffa” (turban). His instructions were always clear. Before retiring for the night, my mother had to place a fresh set of properly ironed clothes and his “Saffa” beside his bed, ready to be tied. His clothes and “Saffa” had to be immaculately clean and white. 

Though he could not see, he could still tell if his shoes were not polished properly.

My mother would often joke with him, asking what difference it made if his shoes were not polished. He would retort that it made a huge difference. “I can feel if my clothes are not properly ironed or if my shoes are not polished.”

After breakfast around 9 a.m., he would take a nap for an hour or so. In winter, he preferred to rest in the sun. After eating fruit, he would walk around the house or even go out for a short walk with support from my mother or someone else in the family.

He would be back in bed before noon and switch on the radio for the afternoon programs. He would listen to devotional music, news, and sometimes running commentary of important games covered by All India Radio. At times, I would get updates on sports matches from him when I returned home from school.

His lunch was very simple: four small chapatis, without butter, with a bowl of dal (pulses) and sabzi (fresh vegetables). After lunch, he would continue listening to the radio and then retire for his second nap.

Around 3:00 or 3:30 p.m., I had to be with him. I would sit close to him and recite “Sukhmani Sahib.” It would take between one hour and 75 minutes. After I finished reciting the path, I was allowed to go out and join my friends for evening games until 6:30, when he would be ready to go to the gurdwara.

It was my duty to take him to a nearby gurdwara, which was hardly a kilometer away. He would hold a stick in his right hand, and I would hold one of the fingers on his left hand and walk him there, where he would join the early evening prayers. His instructions were always that we should be home before dark. Once home, he would have an early dinner, and by 8:00 or 8:30 p.m., he would retire for the day.

Once or twice a month, especially on holidays, he preferred to visit his old workplace or business. Since he had lost one eye in childhood while playing “Gulli Danda,” he lost the second eye following a severe paralytic attack in which the main artery feeding the eye ruptured. 

Despite consulting the best eye surgeons of his time, his eyesight could not be restored. He had no regrets about spending his last 18 years unable to see. Even then, he never complained. His philosophy was simple: live in the present and live happily with the grace of the Almighty.

After the Partition of 1947, our family, like hundreds of others, was devastated. He, however, accepted it as the will of the Almighty and tried to rebuild his life. A severe paralytic stroke was another major blow because the coal business he had started in Ludhiana now needed someone else to supervise and manage it. At that time, my eldest brother was in engineering college, and my second eldest brother was in high school. Both had to give up their studies and take charge of their father’s business.

As a school-going child, I would often have a day off from school to escort my father to his old workplace. I would walk him to the nearest bus stop, from where it would take almost an hour to reach our coal depot near Police Station No. 3. He would interact with workers and neighbors there and spend the day at the depot. In the evening, we would take the bus back home.

Despite his busy routine and high spirits, age began to take its toll on his health. His movements gradually became restricted, and he started developing bedsores. As I grew older and entered college, my routine also changed. Though I still made time to recite Sukhmani Sahib and take him to the gurdwara in the evening, the frequency began to decline. Interestingly, there was no letup in his gratitude to the Almighty or in his faith in Waheguru. He smiled far more than he ever complained.

On the day he left for his heavenly abode, I had gone to college to attend the farewell party traditionally given to B.Sc. final-year students by second-year students. Only later did I realize that when I asked for his permission to go, it was the last time he had sent me to college with a smile. His condition was serious, and my mother and some neighbors were reciting Sukhmani Sahib beside him.

In the two hours that I was away, it was all over. He had gone.

He wanted me to become a doctor. And he left a day before my B.Sc. final practical examinations. I missed the first practical because it coincided with his cremation. I also missed the opportunity to attend medical school.

I switched paths and decided to become a journalist. After all, he had taught me to be a fighter and never allow hardships to affect my thinking. It has been 52 years since he left, but his smiling face and his message — “be thankful to the Almighty” — continue to remind me what a great soul and inspiration he was to me and our family.

“Darji,” you are with us forever. 

Related posts:

Why Radio Remains Essential to Expanding Education Access CUNY Names 29 Students, Including Three South Asians, as Gilman Scholarship Recipients; Eight Selected for Kaplan Leadership Program What 11,664 Salutations Taught Us Over 45,000 People Participate in 100 BAPS Charities Walks Across the United States