The
Last Smile: A Father’s Love Story by Jeevan Zutshi
(Looking
back at the untimely death of a promising young man by his father-)
Chapter Ten
Elementary School 79 I n 1982,
Amit was five-years-old and ready for kindergarten. I had returned from my
latest stint overseas and we were back in Fremont,
California, where I would stay working for a
different company until I returned to Saudi Arabia in 1984. We lived in
our home in Ardenwood Village and Amit went to kindergarten at Ardenwood Elementary School. He loved school,
especially all the games and sports they would engage in. He was always very
much an outdoors boy and loved playing with his friends. However, he also
showed responsibility in completing all his homework assignments and did so
under the watchful eye of Usha and his grandmother, Lalita, my mother. My being
back in America from
overseas was a gift for Amit, as he could be around the many family members who
now all lived in Fremont
or in nearby communities. He was surrounded by those who loved him and he
always had visitors. From a very early age, Amit had attributes that made him
seem amazingly grown up. Around September, the younger members of our family
decided to go for a hike up Mission Peak, which is about 2500 ft. high, in the Fremont hills. Amit
joined us.
It was during a period in my life when I was a little exhausted and
especially felt so on the hike, for I had not been physically active for a
while. While others were fit enough to pass us and began to create some
distance between us, Amit did not leave me even for a moment. As I stopped and
looked up the steep mountain at those that seemed far ahead of us, Amit gave me
encouraging words in his very fluent Kashmiri dialect. He said, “Dear Baba,
what is wrong? I do see that everyone else has overtaken us, but don’t worry.
Don’t stop. Keep on going. We will be with everyone else soon.†It was
remarkable to hear this from a five-year-old child, who was concerned about
motivating me and building my morale. These words, “Don’t stop.
Keep on goingâ€
seem especially poignant to remember now. It is also interesting that when he
began to babble, he began to call me Baba on his own. Baba is the name for
father in some cultures, but it is rare that Kasmiri Hindus use it. However, in
Kashmiri, the translation for father is “Bub.†All the children that came after
Amit also began to call me Baba, and even today everyone calls me Baba. In
October, 1982 just a few weeks after coming home from Saudi Arabia,
Usha gave birth to our second son, Rahul. With this birth, the large contingent
The Last Smile 80 of our family, which lived nearby, descended upon our home.
Rahul got loads of attention and it was an exciting time for all of us. As soon
as Rahul was old enough to play with him, Amit doted on his younger brother. I
recall how happy he was playing endless hours with Rahul. He was never riveted
to the TV set and that could be said for our entire family; there was nothing
more enjoyable for him than playing with Rahul and nothing more enjoyable for
the rest of us than watching him play with Rahul. It felt like truly the best
of times for our family.
We had not only survived, but we were together as a
family, thriving in America
as naturalized U.S.
Citizens. Amit continued his schooling and kindergarten went by quickly. In
first grade, he continued to devote the proper time to studying and when his
educational obligations were done, there was only one place to find him–playing
sports. Amit immediately took to soccer and baseball. He was not a natural
athlete that one could easily see was going to the professional levels, but he
was definitely good at everything he did. From early on, it was evident that
Amit was fully engaged in his life. He enjoyed school, performed at an
above-average level in all his academic subjects, and loved being around his
classmates. But each year it became increasingly clear that sports were his
true passion. He poured his heart and soul into them.
This is very noteworthy
because this passion stayed with him all of his short life. During this time I
returned to Saudi Arabia
for another year’s contract. We talked on the phone regularly, talking about
his school, his friends, and his interests. I missed him very much, but time
went fast. When I returned home in 1985, Amit was a little less than
eight-years-old. I was amazed to see how well he could dance like Michael
Jackson. As I write this, Michael Jackson has just passed away at the age of
fifty. The world is riveted in making sense of his life, death, and legacy and
I can only wonder what Amit would have thought about it. When Amit graduated
from Ardenwood, Rahul was finishing kindergarten and going into the first
grade.
THE END
