Appreciation:

My Father, the Late P.B. Karandawala, a “Dad”, an Advisor and a Friend…

By Kumari Karandawala

NEW YORK - It seems fitting somehow on this 18th death anniversary of my father to share something personal about “Karande,” as he was fondly labeled by his friends and colleagues, and who was “a father”. In recent months, with my own progress in graduate studies and while gaining relevant experience, I have been fortunate to meet fellow Sri Lankans, of varying backgrounds, who impressed upon me their associations with my father. Each reminded me that, while he had been a father, he had also been, in so very many ways, a friend, a colleague, a peer, a public servant, an advisor, an official, an administrator and lastly a human being caught in the frailties of life, similar to the rest of us.

Like the best of them, my father too had his fair share of challenges with his youngest two children (with his first wife Rita), whom he was committed to educating. Idly unaware of the challenges facing us in latter years, we misspent our youth, unheeding of his words of advice and wisdom. These words of advice would be sometimes weekly letters across the seas suggesting for us to check something out in respect to our desired career goals, to touch base with someone and say “Hi”, to not lose touch with someone else, and prompts reminding us of the varied duties of our young and burgeoning adulthood.

To his chagrin, we paid little attention to his suggestions and advice, leaving him questioning why he ever bothered. Then, however, he would inevitably have another bright suggestion that he felt would be more practically applicable given our meager student dispositions and would immediately drop us a postcard with a hastily scrawled missive from some distant shore, where he had been on assignment with the UN.

Perhaps my fondest childhood memory of my father was an evening where I was perched near the head of his bed and watching him draw scenes for me from a movie we had just gone to see. I had dragged my father to see “Jesus Christ Superstar”, a musical hit on the Colombo film circuits. I had been taken with the desert scene sets, the songs and the young singer who played Mary of Magdalena.

For me this was my first introduction to an alternative style of representing a religious story in movies in the wake of the unforgettable Charlton Heston in epics such as the “Ten Commandments”. Oddly, for a self-proclaimed atheist (I believe largely for my mother’s benefit and that of her family), my father seemed to understand my rapture and did his best to scrawl the figure of Christ surrounded by his disciples. The odd misshapen figure that emerged on the page was funny and disappointing and I had looked at him in disbelief.

I vividly recall his toothy, bashful grin and his retort, “Best I can do, man. I don’t think he was actually that good-looking anyhow.” For me, the drawing embodied my father’s ability to perceive what I had been looking for as a child and deliver on the goods, to the best of his drawing ability, as a father.

He was somewhat of a poet and loved to sing and chant verses in the Geneva apartment for his second wife Geethanjali; he had an amazingly photographic memory and recounted verses which he amended to suit his needs or the situation. Most of all he wanted to show his mastery, not just in his anamnesis, but more in his ability to understand what the lyrics signified.

His reading and taste of literature knew no bounds, with him indiscriminately savoring Vyasa, Valmiki, Tagore, Banabhatta, Kalidasa, Rimbaud and Rushdie. He particularly favored accounts of the valiant struggles and eventual successes of the underdog. On one school vacation, I recall him asking us when last we had read Homer’s Odyssey or the Iliad. Seeing our blank stares he was aghast and doggedly continued to inform us how he and his school cohort had learned to speak Latin at the “tender age of 16 and 17 years”. Years later after his death, I found myself picking up the Odyssey and the Iliad simply on account of his absolute and unwavering faith in the good of literature for all men.

Most people do not know that my father was extremely forgiving to a fault and know only of his reputed quick and volatile temper, especially during his days in an administrative capacity. Growing up, I recall an incident involving a neighborhood cat burglar and robber who went by the name Thilaka.

My father had encountered Thilaka begging at the top of our street obviously due to not having had any success with robbing that week. Having pity, my father stopped the car and gave Thilaka some money and suggested he stop by the house for some odd jobs. (Not a good move with my mother, Rita!) After some loitering and taking some coconuts on the sly, Thilaka went back to his old habits and was ultimately caught stealing by the Kirulapona Police.

In a bid to help himself, he gave my father’s name to the police inspector who then called my father. My father agreed to vouch for him. The police brought Thilaka to the house and recounted to my father all the grievances against him. Feeling betrayed, I recall my father staring at Thilaka with tears in his eyes and slapping him across the face whereupon Thilaka began to cry begging my father’s forgiveness.

Almost immediately my father grasped Thilaka’s shoulder and asked the Inspector General of Police to free him. That day was a turning point for Thilaka. He strived to become a member of the neighborhood and looked for odd jobs. He eventually met a girl and settled down with her in a small shack close-by.

Even with our shortcomings as staunch students and young adults, my father was not one to dwell on what we couldn’t achieve but concentrated on what we could practically apply ourselves to, as well as our studies. This was of course achieved after some substantial commiserating with Geetha who was an important and necessary mediator between our father and us, especially regarding our report cards and studies. She kept on top of our varying school schedules and a host of other activities relating to the “storm and stress” of our preadolescence and young adulthood, and advised him of why things were so.

My father always saw the good in people and the connections that were worth making with people. He advocated for my former husband when our first-year marriage issues set upon us. He saw past our inherent racial and ethnic differences, advising me to not give up and likened my husband’s maturing to a fine vintage wine.

He had an uncanny ability to see beyond color and language, and recognize a person’s character beneath. This, to me, was his true gift, and befitting of any public servant within a world organization and /or the diplomatic corps. On one past school vacation, we had gone to see the epic movie Mahabharata produced by Peter Brooks. After getting back to New York, I had been somewhat critical of the fact that for an epic film based in the Indian mythology the cast were of varying ethnicities. I had written to my father because I could not understand why the director chose a varied cast. Perhaps the following post card transcript account will best reflect his philosophy about life.

*“Dear Kumari, *

*Returned yesterday afternoon. It was a long and grueling flight lasting nearly 40 hours in all… I hope your work is proceeding smoothly… Tourism appears to be booming once again in Sri Lanka and you should seriously consider the prospect of building a hotel career there…. You could try one of the big international chains….*

*The Mahabharata film was done by a British director with an international cast. This was a deliberate decision in order to convey the message that the story is of a universal nature forming part of mankind’s common heritage. *

*The woman who acted for “Draupadi” is a famous Indian dancer and a friend of …. I met her once in India. I’ll be away definitely from…22 May until 4 June and possibly from 12-17 May as well.*

*Love .*

*Apuchchi*

* May ’90.”*

A regret is that my father never got to witness my brothers’, mine or his wife’s later accomplishments; certifications and college degrees, successful jobs, start-ups and posts, writings, tokens from interesting places, pieces of art and books, his grandchildren and the amazingly productive young adults they have become, my wonderful partner in life and friend, my husband Kevin, and our brave acts of kindness and charity.

All of these are distinguishable as the living and breathing legacy of the wonder of the man who as a result *is* “Karande”. Oddly, his death served to free him from the frailties of life and when I look back I realize that I had truly known someone surely almost immortal. I think that this is the way all fathers would like to be remembered and it is the way I remember him best; in homage to the perfectionist he always strived to be, and was.