|Dad is the one holding the child.|
Last night “Pete” called. Pete is Pethachi, one of Dad’s colleagues from his days at Purdue University in the early 1950’s. Dad arrived in the United States knowing no one. He arrived just days before school started. He was dazed and confused. Then he began to meet fellow immigrants. Pethachi is from Chennai, India. He was studying chemistry. My dad, engineering and physics. They and another Indian college, Silvi, became fast friends, and remained so. Growing up, whenever Pethachi came to town he would stay with us. There would be Indian silks, Indian sweets, Indian stories of a life so much different than the one we had in Illinois. It was from Pethachi that I learned that Dad had a nick name. It was Mo. And Silvi was Sam, and Pethachi was Pete. When I learned this, I remembered that a few years before someone had called the house asking for Mo. I told him no Mo lived here. And the guy said, Mo, you know Mo, Mohammed. I was aghast….. People call my dad Mo?
|Mohammed Allah Rakha, Pethachi Sivagami, and Silvi|
A few years ago Mo, Pete, and Sam returned to Purdue to re-live the old days. Three aging Indian dudes bopping around Lafayette, Indiana recounting their first years in the United States. The freezing cold weather, the bland food, the new customs.
Dad was very good at staying in touch with his friends. Always making sure to call them every few weeks.
It has been hard to tell these men Dad is gone. They all, to a one, say the same thing. “Oh, no. Oh, no. I have lost such a dear friend. Such a dear friend. He was the kindest man. The kindest man I knew.”
Each phone call brings both empties me and fills me. First one, than the other.
|Dad with his school friend Reddi, in Hyderabad. They knew each other since childhood.|
-Naseem Rakha, January 28, 2015