Reminiscences on a Father’s Day
With my Dad,1995 The third Sunday of June is honoured as Father’s Day all over the world. When your parents are gone and if you have entered the twilight years of your life, their memories come to your mind more often. It reminds you with a pinch about the countless things you could have done for them when they were alive. It is a weighty burden that one carries to the graves or the funeral pyre. Orhan Pamuk, in his inimitable words, said, “With the death of my father, it wasn't just the objects of everyday life that had changed; even the most ordinary street scenes had become irreplaceable mementoes of a lost world whose every detail figured in the meaning of the whole.” The Museum of Innocence I cannot agree more. I have experienced what he had written once; “Every man’s death begins with the death of his father”: My Father My father, Rama Varma Thirumulpad was born in 1919, one year after the First World War ended, to Kandanchatha Othikkan Raman Namboodiri (Vedic schola