27. Tribute to My Parents
My father was not formally educated, but through life experience, he had learned a great deal.
In 1954, after becoming a member of the Majoor Mahajan Union, he learned to read and write at the age of 34 under my mother’s guidance.
My mother had studied up to the fifth standard but was very intelligent. In our home, my father was the “President” and my mother the “Prime Minister” — she ruled inside the house, and he ruled outside. In shaping our character, both my father’s broad-minded outlook and my mother’s nurturing guidance played a major role.
Despite growing up in a society filled with vices, they raised us with care, keeping us away from bad habits and instilling in us discipline, culture, love of learning, honesty, integrity, truthfulness, devotion, compassion, industriousness, a sense of justice, self-respect, and patriotism.
My mother was a devotee of Lord Krishna. Though she was educated, poverty had made her frugal and introverted. Thus, her nature did not always align with my father’s outgoing and generous personality. My mother had no friends, whereas my father had countless friends and acquaintances.
Compassionate and Kind-Hearted
My father’s reputation as a “member” (of the workers’ union) was successful not only because of his leadership but also due to his ability to unite people and his willingness to make personal sacrifices.
Whether it was the city mill or a smaller workshop, if someone ordered tea, the bill was always paid by the member himself. He drank and offered countless cups of tea at Hola’s tea stall at Ramanpura Naka.
He was an excellent conversationalist. Once he started speaking, everyone around him would listen quietly.
In meetings, he used to say, “Sit where you don’t have to get up.” Wherever he sat, people gathered around him like bees around honey.
He was unmatched at maintaining relationships, even when it required personal compromise. When he sat with others and tea or snacks arrived, it was always his wallet that opened — he never let anyone else pay. He never ate or drank anything that someone else had paid for.
At the mill, when he sat for lunch, he would share half of his food with his co-workers — Karsanbhai, Bhagwandas, and Bababhai.
“Sharing and caring” was his way of life. He also collected grain for feeding birds and never missed feeding pigeons every day, even if he had to add extra from his own pocket.
During the monsoon, when the neighborhood ground filled with mud, he would personally take a shovel and start cleaning. Embarrassed, the young men would rush to take the shovel from him and finish the work. He loved playing traditional games like khoḍī with the local youths and enjoyed keeping that bond alive.
With his extroverted nature, he had a charismatic presence. He wore khadi clothes — a long coat, dhoti, and cap — and polished Bata shoes. With his upright posture and confident walk, he left the impression of a respected community leader.
Love for Family
He had deep affection for his family, brothers, sisters, and village. He was particularly fond of the kulkunvasi (his extended clan). He maintained affectionate ties with all his sisters and nieces. If there was a family function (mameru) in the village of Bhataariya, “Khemo Member” was never absent. To him, the honor of his family and village was of utmost importance. Despite poverty, he borrowed money to host proper mamerus for his sisters — as many as thirty-six times!
He adored his daughters deeply. Out of his devotion, he made a vow to Lord Ramapir of Ranuja and brought home Ramilaben as his chosen daughter. Apart from his own sisters, he treated the daughters of his brothers — Khushalbha, Somabha, Narsinhbha, Becharbha, Amarabha, and Chhaganbha — with equal love.
Once, during his brother Khushalbha’s daughter Hiraben’s wedding, he even removed his ring to help arrange her clothes and wedding thread. On another occasion, when she came home for a meal and there was no ghee, my mother served her sweet porridge made with oil instead. After she left, my father found out, scolded my mother, brought the girl back, and served her porridge made properly with ghee before letting her go again!
Whenever he was sitting somewhere and an acquaintance happened to pass by, he would call out loudly to stop them, invite them in, and insist they share a cup of tea before leaving — all paid by him, of course.
In 1972, when my aunt Sundarba passed away, my father performed the Sharaddha rituals with great devotion — served pure ghee sheera (sweet semolina pudding) for twelve days to the community as a traditional tribute. But as soon as the thirteenth-day ceremony (termu) concluded, he remembered his own father, Valabhbha, who had passed away 42 years earlier, and immediately announced a Kalashiyo (a memorial feast) in his name. Relatives, friends, and family from all around gathered and relished the sheera to their heart’s content.
In that Kalashiyo, sixteen tins of ghee were used. In a huge cauldron, the golden, aromatic sheera was cooked, and more ghee was poured generously over the top. After the ritual ended, the leftover sheera lasted us for a whole month — we kept roasting and eating it daily. Its taste still lingers in my memory even today.
To him, maintaining family traditions and the honor of the family and village was more important than avoiding debt — he would rather borrow money than let customs lapse.
My father was extraordinarily generous; had my mother not been frugal, our home might never have managed!
As soon as he received his salary on the 7th, by the 22nd it was all spent — often helping those in need. If someone came to borrow money, he never refused. Even when he knew the borrower might never repay — like when a drunkard’s wife came seeking help for her children — he still gave with an open hand.
If anyone stretched a hand toward him, he could never say no. His hand would immediately reach for his wallet, and whatever was inside, he would give. No one ever left him empty-handed.
Once he handed his salary to my mother, it was as if sealed — she kept it safe. Yet, if anyone came later asking for a loan, he would find a way, even by borrowing from someone else, to help them — but would never send anyone away empty-handed.
When mangans (traditional alms-seekers), vahivanchas (bardic genealogists), or bawas (wandering ascetics) came, he would go around the entire neighborhood collecting money on their behalf and send them off content.
He loved hearing the mangan sing“
“Khema member, you’ve kept the faith, On every Ekadasi, you give a rupee.” His ears longed for those words. He would reach for his pocket, and the rupee would appear!
When the vahivancha came and recited the lineage:
“Solanki search for skip ways, Vaghela build the fence, When Parmars’ turn comes, the Makwana says — Mother, give me a blanket to wear!” My father would beam with pride, for he too was a Parmar.
If a bawaji came to the street, he would make him sit, then go door to door collecting offerings on his behalf, and send the ascetic off joyfully.
For many years, he used to smoke tobacco in a small hookah called gujariyu. Silver hookah he had specially made, filled it only on special occasions — when guests visited or for weddings and ceremonies. Later in life, he switched from hookah to chewing tobacco, as filling the hookah became troublesome.
In his final days, I once took away his tobacco and lime box, thinking to reduce stress on his heart — and that act became a lifelong regret. I had unknowingly hurt him.
He had always been in excellent health, never fell ill. My mother, however, often suffered ailments, so most of our attention went to her.
But in 1984, after the textile mills shut down, he faced emotional distress and a sense of helplessness. I was then in Mussoorie, attending Phase-II training, while he had gone to the village to do farming.
In July 1987, while pulling out large thor (cactus plants) to build a fence, he suffered a heart attack. He was admitted to the Bapunagar Employees’ State Insurance Hospital and kept in the ICU for fifteen days. Yet, my family didn’t inform me — fearing I might worry during training. When I returned from Mussoorie in August, I learned of it.
After that, with regular checkups and medicine, his health remained stable for some time — but age began to overtake his strength.
During my postings as an IAS officer, I was often stationed in various districts. My father’s friends and relatives all lived in Ahmedabad, so he never quite enjoyed the quiet domestic life with us in those small district headquarters. He would stay for a day or two and then return to Ahmedabad.
To ensure he was well cared for, we arranged for him to live separately in his own house at Mayur Park, which he himself had built. My cousin Jivanbhai’s elder son Suresh and his wife Kusum stayed there to look after him. But, in truth, instead of the young couple serving him, he ended up looking after them!
We had given him a telephone connection so that if there was any emergency at night, we could be informed immediately and reach him without delay.
My father was a self-reliant man — after retirement, he lived like Gandhiji, washing his own clothes and doing his own shopping in the market.
In 2001, when the Kutch earthquake struck on 26 January, I was posted in Bhuj as the Chief Coordinator, first with Shri G. Subba Rao and later with Shri L. Man Singh, for earthquake relief operations.
In the first week of April 2001, my brother-in-law Vinod was diagnosed with a brain tumor, so I came to Ahmedabad for his treatment. Despite undergoing surgery, Vinod did not survive. That same week, my father began facing health issues.
Father’s Prostate and Cataract Operations
He had been suffering from prostate-related urinary retention for quite some time, but out of hesitation or perhaps fear, he had kept it to himself. He finally disclosed it in November 2000, by which time he could no longer pass urine. Convinced that his end was near, he became restless and worried for the first time.
Since his PSA count was high, on the advice of Dr. Dilipbhai Shah, instead of undergoing a risky prostate surgery, he was treated through an orchidectomy, which provided relief. Because of his heart condition, doctors were unwilling to keep him under anesthesia for long.
About four months later, at the age of 81, he underwent cataract surgery on his right eye at Nagarik Hospital on Friday, 6 April 2001. Unfortunately, while in the hospital, his boghas (colored spectacles) were stolen.
Chest Pain
It had been only three days since my father had returned home after his cataract surgery when the son of our neighbor, Pashabhai, created some commotion, which startled him. Then, Suresh’s wife, Kusum, forgot to take the pickle, and he got upset over that as well.
In Mayur Park Society, the municipal water supply had low pressure, so one had to place the water pot inside a pit to fill it. On Tuesday, 10 April 2001, around 10 or 11 a.m., while lifting a pot of water out of the pit, he felt a sharp pain on the left side of his chest. He sat down for a while, but the pain didn’t subside, so he asked to call me.
We immediately took him to the cardiologist Dr. Tejas Patel. He was able to walk into the doctor’s chamber without help. After examining him, Dr. Patel said it was angina pain, caused by reduced pumping of the heart, and suggested keeping him under observation in the hospital for two to three days.
Since he knew my father personally, Dr. Patel reassured him, saying, “Kaka, don’t worry — you’ll be fine for at least another seven years.” He told me there was no need for surgery and recommended taking him to Vadilal Sarabhai Hospital, where his assistant, Dr. Sanjay, would take care of him.
My father, however, strongly resisted the idea of hospital admission. Still, I admitted him to V.S. Hospital against his wishes, following Dr. Patel’s advice. As soon as he was admitted, I felt an ominous heaviness — as if my father was slowly slipping away from my hands. When I saw him being wheeled away on a stretcher, it felt as though someone was dragging my heart itself to the gates of death.
The Final Stage at V.S. Hospital
He was placed on bed number 5 in the corner of the ICU. He refused to wear the hospital clothes and pulled out the IV line attached to his arm. The ICU was centrally air-conditioned, and he felt unbearably cold. Even after covering him with a blanket, he kept complaining. Since the AC could not be turned off, we pasted newspapers over the vents to block the draft of cold air.
V.S. Hospital was run by the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation. Seeing my father’s deteriorating condition, I called the then Municipal Commissioner to request special care, but since I was only a junior IAS officer — and a Gujarati one at that — he ignored the plea.
My father was insistent on returning home. On Wednesday, I decided to take him back, but Dr. Bhadresh Shah advised against it, saying he was not stable enough and that moving him could be fatal. I agreed to wait another day, but my father didn’t like that decision.
That evening, dinner arrived from Jivanbhai’s house. As was his habit, my father first offered me a portion, saying, “Take this, you eat.” I failed to recognize that gesture as his final act of affection. I declined, so he ate five or seven bites himself — his last meal. I had taken away his tobacco box that day, so after drinking some water, he lay down to rest on the bed.
Negligence Invites Death
I had been standing for two days straight, exhausted and hungry. Around 10 p.m., I developed back pain and decided to return to Gandhinagar for the night, leaving Suresh in charge, with instructions to call me immediately in case of an emergency — I assured him I would be awake through the night. Suresh then handed the night duty to his brothers, Rajendra (Mango) and Prakash, and went home.
Meanwhile, my father woke up during the night and began insisting on going home immediately. In their struggle to restrain him, whatever little strength he had left was spent. The two young men didn’t know what to do, so they called Kanubhai and Rukshmani. They summoned the duty doctor, who, without proper consideration, injected him with a sedative. My father fell asleep.
When he awoke at 7:30 a.m., he again insisted on being taken home. This time, he wasn’t given his morning medicine or tea. Another duty doctor was called — and again, without caution, another sedative was administered.
I was completely unaware of what was happening. When I arrived at 10 a.m. with cluster beans curry (guvar nu shaak) and orange juice — his last wish — I found my father unconscious. When I asked the doctors, they said, “He’s been given a sedative; he’ll regain consciousness around 1:30 p.m.”
All the precautions we had maintained during his prostate surgery — to prevent him from slipping into a coma — were carelessly disregarded by the V.S. Hospital staff in my absence. Now, there was nothing left but to wait, trusting fate.
The Final Moments
It was past 1:30 p.m., then 2:00 p.m., but my father had still not regained consciousness.
Dr. Salim was sitting nearby, reading a book. When I asked him, he said,
“His condition is like that of a horse utterly exhausted after a long run.”
“The senior doctors were all in the operation theatre. I had no choice but to sit there helplessly, watching.
It must have been around 2:30 p.m. when he suddenly moved slightly. I said,
“Bapa, wake up. It’s morning, let’s have some tea.”
He opened his eyes faintly and asked, “Who are you?”
I said softly, “Punam.”
Hearing that, he slipped back into unconsciousness. Then, as if he were taking a ritual bath and preparing to change into fresh clothes, he made gentle movements with his hands — and smiled faintly. That smile sent a chill through me.
I was reminded of Tuesday night, in 1972, on Maha Vad Beej, when my grandmother Sundarba had smiled in exactly the same way — and passed away in the very next moment. Until that instant, I had no premonition of my father’s death. But that brief smile — that same serene, mysterious smile — spread a tremor through my entire body. I was terrified.
The clock showed 3:00 p.m.
Kanubhai, Lakshmi, and Suresh were present. Just then, Jivanbhai, my eldest brother, arrived. In his presence, we put eye drops into my father’s cataract-operated eye.
Jivanbhai gently wiped Bapa’s eyes and called out to him, “Bapa!”
He asked faintly, “Who?”
Jivanbhai replied, “It’s me — Jivanbhai.”
Upon hearing that, he seemed to withdraw inward, as if descending deep within himself. On one side, Kanubhai and Lakshmi moved a little forward — and in the very next moment, his chest rose once, his left eye rolled clockwise, and he departed.
We woke Dr. Salim from his reading. He rushed in and injected something into his chest. The alarm brought other doctors running. They tried artificial respiration using a balloon pump, gave electric shocks to the heart — but he did not return.
This time, it seemed he was truly angry enough to leave forever.
That day, Dhaval had his Standard 12 Mathematics-II exam. My friend Nixon was bringing him home when they got the news over the phone and drove straight to Mayur Park.
It was a Thursday, the sky overcast with clouds — as if nature herself offered a gentle shower in tribute to my father.
The next day, on Good Friday afternoon, his cremation was performed.
His face was peaceful, his hands soft and supple, as though even death had come to him with tenderness.
Mother’s Departure
After my father passed away, my mother was left utterly empty and disoriented.
She declared, “Exactly one month from now — on 12 May 2001 — I too shall depart.”
A few days later, her health began to decline.
At first, she was admitted to Kakadiya Hospital in Bapunagar, but when she required ventilator support and no machine was available at the Civil Hospital, she was moved to Shrey Hospital.
Pulmonologist Dr. Parthiv Mehta placed her on a BiPAP machine, but as soon as 12 May arrived — the machine stopped working.
Against her will, she was put on a ventilator. When her condition showed slight improvement, a junior pulmonologist, Dr. Mukesh Patel, hastily decided to de-ventilate her — and she slipped into a coma. Later, in an effort to bring her out of it, a woman doctor struck her chest so forcefully that her ribs fractured.
I was devastated. The cold, commercial nature of private hospitals — squeezing the emotions of the patient’s relatives — was unbearable. Instead of reducing the lung infection, it continued to worsen.
This time, Dr. Gautam Bhagat wasn’t around to help.
Mother developed pneumonia. Expensive injections were prescribed, yet the infection spread instead of subsiding — something I couldn’t understand.
Later, we discovered the fraud: the nurses would push the family members out while pretend to inject the costly medicines, but secretly draw them back in pocket, only to resell the same injection through the pharmacy the next day.
My wife Lakshmi, ever watchful, caught them red-handed.
Even when a patient lay dying, their blood levels dangerously low, the hospital would still take blood samples twice a day “for lab tests,” inflating the bills.
Private hospitals seemed more interested in increasing the billing amount than in saving the patient — and when the patient was unlikely to survive, they left no limit to their exploitation.
In the end, we had to yield to my mother’s wish to join her life partner.
On the eleventh day, the ventilator was removed, and we brought her home.
Within a few hours, on the night of 23 May 2001, at 8:00 p.m., she peacefully left this world.
She had suffered immensely all her life — from her marriage in 1940 to her death in 2001, pain was her constant companion.
The pain of poverty, the pain of losing children, the hardship of labor, her father’s temper, and fifty years of battling chronic bronchitis in a frail body.
A Woman of Strong Will
My mother had extraordinary mental strength.
In 1994, while sitting on a chair reading the newspaper, she turned around at my father’s call to see our son Mehul — and the chair overturned.
She fell and fractured her femur bone. Orthopedic surgeon Dr. Navin Thakkar inserted metal rods and helped her walk again.
Even at that age, she exercised on a standing cycle and regained her strength — her second life.
But in 1996, another storm came.
She became gravely ill with a severe lung infection.
At the time, I was Deputy Secretary in the Health Department, so we admitted her to Civil Hospital.
Antibiotics were started, but one morning at 4 a.m., her condition worsened. My nephew Suresh called me urgently.
I immediately contacted Dr. Gautam Bhagat and Dr. Tejas Patel.
Dr. Tejas Patel left for Civil Hospital straight away, and I brought Dr. Bhagat from his residence at Paldi.
When we arrived, we were told she had stopped breathing just moments earlier.
Both doctors comforted me, saying, “Death must come once in every life.”
But I couldn’t accept it.
I said, “This just happened. There must still be a cause — and may be a chance.”
Dr. Bhagat replied, “Her lungs are filled with infection — that’s what caused the death.”
I insisted, “Then drain the infection, put her on a ventilator — help her breathe, do something!”
Dr. Bhagat softened. He touched her body — it was still warm.
He drew blood from her thigh artery — it was still red.
Dr. Prafulla rushed in with a ventilator.
They placed her on life support, used a suction pump to clear her lungs, and administered medication through IV.
For a while, only the machine breathed — there was no response from her body.
Still, the Civil Hospital team fought on.
For twelve days, we battled between life and death.
On the thirteenth day, she came back.
Her body responded, and within two days, the ventilator was removed.
We brought her home — and she lived five more years.
When I later asked, “Ba, do you remember being on the ventilator for twelve days?”
She said, “I remember nothing — except the divine vision of Lord Krishna holding the Sudarshan Chakra.”
She told me, “If ever such illness comes again, do not put me on a ventilator — let me go.”
I agreed then, but I knew — my heart would never allow me to keep that promise.
In 2001, that truth returned.
The sudden death of my father on 12 April 2001 broke her completely.
Her body grew weaker and thinner — and finally, on 23 May 2001, she departed to join him.
An End — or a Pause
Thus ended a great life story.
A couple who had fought and won through 51 years of struggle — vanished together within a single month.
Even 24 years later, their absence still hurts.
On the foundation of their toil, virtue, and honor, we — their children — live in comfort and prosperity today.
To honor my father’s greatness, we changed our family surname from Parmar to Khem while he was still alive.
Today, the next generations in our family — the officers and professionals — are all known in their workplaces as “Khem Saheb.”
Hearing anyone address them that way still fills us with peace, pride, and gratitude.
20 September 2025
My father was not formally educated, but through life experience, he had learned a great deal.
In 1954, after becoming a member of the Majoor Mahajan Union, he learned to read and write at the age of 34 under my mother’s guidance.
My mother had studied up to the fifth standard but was very intelligent. In our home, my father was the “President” and my mother the “Prime Minister” — she ruled inside the house, and he ruled outside. In shaping our character, both my father’s broad-minded outlook and my mother’s nurturing guidance played a major role.
Despite growing up in a society filled with vices, they raised us with care, keeping us away from bad habits and instilling in us discipline, culture, love of learning, honesty, integrity, truthfulness, devotion, compassion, industriousness, a sense of justice, self-respect, and patriotism.
My mother was a devotee of Lord Krishna. Though she was educated, poverty had made her frugal and introverted. Thus, her nature did not always align with my father’s outgoing and generous personality. My mother had no friends, whereas my father had countless friends and acquaintances.
Compassionate and Kind-Hearted
My father’s reputation as a “member” (of the workers’ union) was successful not only because of his leadership but also due to his ability to unite people and his willingness to make personal sacrifices.
Whether it was the city mill or a smaller workshop, if someone ordered tea, the bill was always paid by the member himself. He drank and offered countless cups of tea at Hola’s tea stall at Ramanpura Naka.
He was an excellent conversationalist. Once he started speaking, everyone around him would listen quietly.
In meetings, he used to say, “Sit where you don’t have to get up.” Wherever he sat, people gathered around him like bees around honey.
He was unmatched at maintaining relationships, even when it required personal compromise. When he sat with others and tea or snacks arrived, it was always his wallet that opened — he never let anyone else pay. He never ate or drank anything that someone else had paid for.
At the mill, when he sat for lunch, he would share half of his food with his co-workers — Karsanbhai, Bhagwandas, and Bababhai.
“Sharing and caring” was his way of life. He also collected grain for feeding birds and never missed feeding pigeons every day, even if he had to add extra from his own pocket.
During the monsoon, when the neighborhood ground filled with mud, he would personally take a shovel and start cleaning. Embarrassed, the young men would rush to take the shovel from him and finish the work. He loved playing traditional games like khoḍī with the local youths and enjoyed keeping that bond alive.
With his extroverted nature, he had a charismatic presence. He wore khadi clothes — a long coat, dhoti, and cap — and polished Bata shoes. With his upright posture and confident walk, he left the impression of a respected community leader.
Love for Family
He had deep affection for his family, brothers, sisters, and village. He was particularly fond of the kulkunvasi (his extended clan). He maintained affectionate ties with all his sisters and nieces. If there was a family function (mameru) in the village of Bhataariya, “Khemo Member” was never absent. To him, the honor of his family and village was of utmost importance. Despite poverty, he borrowed money to host proper mamerus for his sisters — as many as thirty-six times!
He adored his daughters deeply. Out of his devotion, he made a vow to Lord Ramapir of Ranuja and brought home Ramilaben as his chosen daughter. Apart from his own sisters, he treated the daughters of his brothers — Khushalbha, Somabha, Narsinhbha, Becharbha, Amarabha, and Chhaganbha — with equal love.
Once, during his brother Khushalbha’s daughter Hiraben’s wedding, he even removed his ring to help arrange her clothes and wedding thread. On another occasion, when she came home for a meal and there was no ghee, my mother served her sweet porridge made with oil instead. After she left, my father found out, scolded my mother, brought the girl back, and served her porridge made properly with ghee before letting her go again!
Whenever he was sitting somewhere and an acquaintance happened to pass by, he would call out loudly to stop them, invite them in, and insist they share a cup of tea before leaving — all paid by him, of course.
In 1972, when my aunt Sundarba passed away, my father performed the Sharaddha rituals with great devotion — served pure ghee sheera (sweet semolina pudding) for twelve days to the community as a traditional tribute. But as soon as the thirteenth-day ceremony (termu) concluded, he remembered his own father, Valabhbha, who had passed away 42 years earlier, and immediately announced a Kalashiyo (a memorial feast) in his name. Relatives, friends, and family from all around gathered and relished the sheera to their heart’s content.
In that Kalashiyo, sixteen tins of ghee were used. In a huge cauldron, the golden, aromatic sheera was cooked, and more ghee was poured generously over the top. After the ritual ended, the leftover sheera lasted us for a whole month — we kept roasting and eating it daily. Its taste still lingers in my memory even today.
To him, maintaining family traditions and the honor of the family and village was more important than avoiding debt — he would rather borrow money than let customs lapse.
My father was extraordinarily generous; had my mother not been frugal, our home might never have managed!
As soon as he received his salary on the 7th, by the 22nd it was all spent — often helping those in need. If someone came to borrow money, he never refused. Even when he knew the borrower might never repay — like when a drunkard’s wife came seeking help for her children — he still gave with an open hand.
If anyone stretched a hand toward him, he could never say no. His hand would immediately reach for his wallet, and whatever was inside, he would give. No one ever left him empty-handed.
Once he handed his salary to my mother, it was as if sealed — she kept it safe. Yet, if anyone came later asking for a loan, he would find a way, even by borrowing from someone else, to help them — but would never send anyone away empty-handed.
When mangans (traditional alms-seekers), vahivanchas (bardic genealogists), or bawas (wandering ascetics) came, he would go around the entire neighborhood collecting money on their behalf and send them off content.
He loved hearing the mangan sing“
“Khema member, you’ve kept the faith, On every Ekadasi, you give a rupee.” His ears longed for those words. He would reach for his pocket, and the rupee would appear!
When the vahivancha came and recited the lineage:
“Solanki search for skip ways, Vaghela build the fence, When Parmars’ turn comes, the Makwana says — Mother, give me a blanket to wear!” My father would beam with pride, for he too was a Parmar.
If a bawaji came to the street, he would make him sit, then go door to door collecting offerings on his behalf, and send the ascetic off joyfully.
For many years, he used to smoke tobacco in a small hookah called gujariyu. Silver hookah he had specially made, filled it only on special occasions — when guests visited or for weddings and ceremonies. Later in life, he switched from hookah to chewing tobacco, as filling the hookah became troublesome.
In his final days, I once took away his tobacco and lime box, thinking to reduce stress on his heart — and that act became a lifelong regret. I had unknowingly hurt him.
He had always been in excellent health, never fell ill. My mother, however, often suffered ailments, so most of our attention went to her.
But in 1984, after the textile mills shut down, he faced emotional distress and a sense of helplessness. I was then in Mussoorie, attending Phase-II training, while he had gone to the village to do farming.
In July 1987, while pulling out large thor (cactus plants) to build a fence, he suffered a heart attack. He was admitted to the Bapunagar Employees’ State Insurance Hospital and kept in the ICU for fifteen days. Yet, my family didn’t inform me — fearing I might worry during training. When I returned from Mussoorie in August, I learned of it.
After that, with regular checkups and medicine, his health remained stable for some time — but age began to overtake his strength.
During my postings as an IAS officer, I was often stationed in various districts. My father’s friends and relatives all lived in Ahmedabad, so he never quite enjoyed the quiet domestic life with us in those small district headquarters. He would stay for a day or two and then return to Ahmedabad.
To ensure he was well cared for, we arranged for him to live separately in his own house at Mayur Park, which he himself had built. My cousin Jivanbhai’s elder son Suresh and his wife Kusum stayed there to look after him. But, in truth, instead of the young couple serving him, he ended up looking after them!
We had given him a telephone connection so that if there was any emergency at night, we could be informed immediately and reach him without delay.
My father was a self-reliant man — after retirement, he lived like Gandhiji, washing his own clothes and doing his own shopping in the market.
In 2001, when the Kutch earthquake struck on 26 January, I was posted in Bhuj as the Chief Coordinator, first with Shri G. Subba Rao and later with Shri L. Man Singh, for earthquake relief operations.
In the first week of April 2001, my brother-in-law Vinod was diagnosed with a brain tumor, so I came to Ahmedabad for his treatment. Despite undergoing surgery, Vinod did not survive. That same week, my father began facing health issues.
Father’s Prostate and Cataract Operations
He had been suffering from prostate-related urinary retention for quite some time, but out of hesitation or perhaps fear, he had kept it to himself. He finally disclosed it in November 2000, by which time he could no longer pass urine. Convinced that his end was near, he became restless and worried for the first time.
Since his PSA count was high, on the advice of Dr. Dilipbhai Shah, instead of undergoing a risky prostate surgery, he was treated through an orchidectomy, which provided relief. Because of his heart condition, doctors were unwilling to keep him under anesthesia for long.
About four months later, at the age of 81, he underwent cataract surgery on his right eye at Nagarik Hospital on Friday, 6 April 2001. Unfortunately, while in the hospital, his boghas (colored spectacles) were stolen.
Chest Pain
It had been only three days since my father had returned home after his cataract surgery when the son of our neighbor, Pashabhai, created some commotion, which startled him. Then, Suresh’s wife, Kusum, forgot to take the pickle, and he got upset over that as well.
In Mayur Park Society, the municipal water supply had low pressure, so one had to place the water pot inside a pit to fill it. On Tuesday, 10 April 2001, around 10 or 11 a.m., while lifting a pot of water out of the pit, he felt a sharp pain on the left side of his chest. He sat down for a while, but the pain didn’t subside, so he asked to call me.
We immediately took him to the cardiologist Dr. Tejas Patel. He was able to walk into the doctor’s chamber without help. After examining him, Dr. Patel said it was angina pain, caused by reduced pumping of the heart, and suggested keeping him under observation in the hospital for two to three days.
Since he knew my father personally, Dr. Patel reassured him, saying, “Kaka, don’t worry — you’ll be fine for at least another seven years.” He told me there was no need for surgery and recommended taking him to Vadilal Sarabhai Hospital, where his assistant, Dr. Sanjay, would take care of him.
My father, however, strongly resisted the idea of hospital admission. Still, I admitted him to V.S. Hospital against his wishes, following Dr. Patel’s advice. As soon as he was admitted, I felt an ominous heaviness — as if my father was slowly slipping away from my hands. When I saw him being wheeled away on a stretcher, it felt as though someone was dragging my heart itself to the gates of death.
The Final Stage at V.S. Hospital
He was placed on bed number 5 in the corner of the ICU. He refused to wear the hospital clothes and pulled out the IV line attached to his arm. The ICU was centrally air-conditioned, and he felt unbearably cold. Even after covering him with a blanket, he kept complaining. Since the AC could not be turned off, we pasted newspapers over the vents to block the draft of cold air.
V.S. Hospital was run by the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation. Seeing my father’s deteriorating condition, I called the then Municipal Commissioner to request special care, but since I was only a junior IAS officer — and a Gujarati one at that — he ignored the plea.
My father was insistent on returning home. On Wednesday, I decided to take him back, but Dr. Bhadresh Shah advised against it, saying he was not stable enough and that moving him could be fatal. I agreed to wait another day, but my father didn’t like that decision.
That evening, dinner arrived from Jivanbhai’s house. As was his habit, my father first offered me a portion, saying, “Take this, you eat.” I failed to recognize that gesture as his final act of affection. I declined, so he ate five or seven bites himself — his last meal. I had taken away his tobacco box that day, so after drinking some water, he lay down to rest on the bed.
Negligence Invites Death
I had been standing for two days straight, exhausted and hungry. Around 10 p.m., I developed back pain and decided to return to Gandhinagar for the night, leaving Suresh in charge, with instructions to call me immediately in case of an emergency — I assured him I would be awake through the night. Suresh then handed the night duty to his brothers, Rajendra (Mango) and Prakash, and went home.
Meanwhile, my father woke up during the night and began insisting on going home immediately. In their struggle to restrain him, whatever little strength he had left was spent. The two young men didn’t know what to do, so they called Kanubhai and Rukshmani. They summoned the duty doctor, who, without proper consideration, injected him with a sedative. My father fell asleep.
When he awoke at 7:30 a.m., he again insisted on being taken home. This time, he wasn’t given his morning medicine or tea. Another duty doctor was called — and again, without caution, another sedative was administered.
I was completely unaware of what was happening. When I arrived at 10 a.m. with cluster beans curry (guvar nu shaak) and orange juice — his last wish — I found my father unconscious. When I asked the doctors, they said, “He’s been given a sedative; he’ll regain consciousness around 1:30 p.m.”
All the precautions we had maintained during his prostate surgery — to prevent him from slipping into a coma — were carelessly disregarded by the V.S. Hospital staff in my absence. Now, there was nothing left but to wait, trusting fate.
The Final Moments
It was past 1:30 p.m., then 2:00 p.m., but my father had still not regained consciousness.
Dr. Salim was sitting nearby, reading a book. When I asked him, he said,
“His condition is like that of a horse utterly exhausted after a long run.”
“The senior doctors were all in the operation theatre. I had no choice but to sit there helplessly, watching.
It must have been around 2:30 p.m. when he suddenly moved slightly. I said,
“Bapa, wake up. It’s morning, let’s have some tea.”
He opened his eyes faintly and asked, “Who are you?”
I said softly, “Punam.”
Hearing that, he slipped back into unconsciousness. Then, as if he were taking a ritual bath and preparing to change into fresh clothes, he made gentle movements with his hands — and smiled faintly. That smile sent a chill through me.
I was reminded of Tuesday night, in 1972, on Maha Vad Beej, when my grandmother Sundarba had smiled in exactly the same way — and passed away in the very next moment. Until that instant, I had no premonition of my father’s death. But that brief smile — that same serene, mysterious smile — spread a tremor through my entire body. I was terrified.
The clock showed 3:00 p.m.
Kanubhai, Lakshmi, and Suresh were present. Just then, Jivanbhai, my eldest brother, arrived. In his presence, we put eye drops into my father’s cataract-operated eye.
Jivanbhai gently wiped Bapa’s eyes and called out to him, “Bapa!”
He asked faintly, “Who?”
Jivanbhai replied, “It’s me — Jivanbhai.”
Upon hearing that, he seemed to withdraw inward, as if descending deep within himself. On one side, Kanubhai and Lakshmi moved a little forward — and in the very next moment, his chest rose once, his left eye rolled clockwise, and he departed.
We woke Dr. Salim from his reading. He rushed in and injected something into his chest. The alarm brought other doctors running. They tried artificial respiration using a balloon pump, gave electric shocks to the heart — but he did not return.
This time, it seemed he was truly angry enough to leave forever.
That day, Dhaval had his Standard 12 Mathematics-II exam. My friend Nixon was bringing him home when they got the news over the phone and drove straight to Mayur Park.
It was a Thursday, the sky overcast with clouds — as if nature herself offered a gentle shower in tribute to my father.
The next day, on Good Friday afternoon, his cremation was performed.
His face was peaceful, his hands soft and supple, as though even death had come to him with tenderness.
Mother’s Departure
After my father passed away, my mother was left utterly empty and disoriented.
She declared, “Exactly one month from now — on 12 May 2001 — I too shall depart.”
A few days later, her health began to decline.
At first, she was admitted to Kakadiya Hospital in Bapunagar, but when she required ventilator support and no machine was available at the Civil Hospital, she was moved to Shrey Hospital.
Pulmonologist Dr. Parthiv Mehta placed her on a BiPAP machine, but as soon as 12 May arrived — the machine stopped working.
Against her will, she was put on a ventilator. When her condition showed slight improvement, a junior pulmonologist, Dr. Mukesh Patel, hastily decided to de-ventilate her — and she slipped into a coma. Later, in an effort to bring her out of it, a woman doctor struck her chest so forcefully that her ribs fractured.
I was devastated. The cold, commercial nature of private hospitals — squeezing the emotions of the patient’s relatives — was unbearable. Instead of reducing the lung infection, it continued to worsen.
This time, Dr. Gautam Bhagat wasn’t around to help.
Mother developed pneumonia. Expensive injections were prescribed, yet the infection spread instead of subsiding — something I couldn’t understand.
Later, we discovered the fraud: the nurses would push the family members out while pretend to inject the costly medicines, but secretly draw them back in pocket, only to resell the same injection through the pharmacy the next day.
My wife Lakshmi, ever watchful, caught them red-handed.
Even when a patient lay dying, their blood levels dangerously low, the hospital would still take blood samples twice a day “for lab tests,” inflating the bills.
Private hospitals seemed more interested in increasing the billing amount than in saving the patient — and when the patient was unlikely to survive, they left no limit to their exploitation.
In the end, we had to yield to my mother’s wish to join her life partner.
On the eleventh day, the ventilator was removed, and we brought her home.
Within a few hours, on the night of 23 May 2001, at 8:00 p.m., she peacefully left this world.
She had suffered immensely all her life — from her marriage in 1940 to her death in 2001, pain was her constant companion.
The pain of poverty, the pain of losing children, the hardship of labor, her father’s temper, and fifty years of battling chronic bronchitis in a frail body.
A Woman of Strong Will
My mother had extraordinary mental strength.
In 1994, while sitting on a chair reading the newspaper, she turned around at my father’s call to see our son Mehul — and the chair overturned.
She fell and fractured her femur bone. Orthopedic surgeon Dr. Navin Thakkar inserted metal rods and helped her walk again.
Even at that age, she exercised on a standing cycle and regained her strength — her second life.
But in 1996, another storm came.
She became gravely ill with a severe lung infection.
At the time, I was Deputy Secretary in the Health Department, so we admitted her to Civil Hospital.
Antibiotics were started, but one morning at 4 a.m., her condition worsened. My nephew Suresh called me urgently.
I immediately contacted Dr. Gautam Bhagat and Dr. Tejas Patel.
Dr. Tejas Patel left for Civil Hospital straight away, and I brought Dr. Bhagat from his residence at Paldi.
When we arrived, we were told she had stopped breathing just moments earlier.
Both doctors comforted me, saying, “Death must come once in every life.”
But I couldn’t accept it.
I said, “This just happened. There must still be a cause — and may be a chance.”
Dr. Bhagat replied, “Her lungs are filled with infection — that’s what caused the death.”
I insisted, “Then drain the infection, put her on a ventilator — help her breathe, do something!”
Dr. Bhagat softened. He touched her body — it was still warm.
He drew blood from her thigh artery — it was still red.
Dr. Prafulla rushed in with a ventilator.
They placed her on life support, used a suction pump to clear her lungs, and administered medication through IV.
For a while, only the machine breathed — there was no response from her body.
Still, the Civil Hospital team fought on.
For twelve days, we battled between life and death.
On the thirteenth day, she came back.
Her body responded, and within two days, the ventilator was removed.
We brought her home — and she lived five more years.
When I later asked, “Ba, do you remember being on the ventilator for twelve days?”
She said, “I remember nothing — except the divine vision of Lord Krishna holding the Sudarshan Chakra.”
She told me, “If ever such illness comes again, do not put me on a ventilator — let me go.”
I agreed then, but I knew — my heart would never allow me to keep that promise.
In 2001, that truth returned.
The sudden death of my father on 12 April 2001 broke her completely.
Her body grew weaker and thinner — and finally, on 23 May 2001, she departed to join him.
An End — or a Pause
Thus ended a great life story.
A couple who had fought and won through 51 years of struggle — vanished together within a single month.
Even 24 years later, their absence still hurts.
On the foundation of their toil, virtue, and honor, we — their children — live in comfort and prosperity today.
To honor my father’s greatness, we changed our family surname from Parmar to Khem while he was still alive.
Today, the next generations in our family — the officers and professionals — are all known in their workplaces as “Khem Saheb.”
Hearing anyone address them that way still fills us with peace, pride, and gratitude.
20 September 2025
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