The weekly hospital dispatches from your father and, more infrequently, from those in his familial circle, painted the image of him as the centrepiece of a reconceived nativity scene. I imagined it in terms of one of those gigantic oil paintings that are always ostentatiously framed in gilded wood and are, in fact, so huge that the galleries in which they hang aren't sufficiently large enough for you to stand back and absorb the entire canvas. You have to take it in piecemeal, which was perhaps the intention of the creators of these works – that the viewer be immersed in the painting, as opposed to seeing it as God might perceive it, in its entirety. The subject of these group portraits is often a convergence of European nobility. They are usually rich in symbolism, if you know where to look. If you are an academically inclined person of culture (sadly, I am a unrefined brute) then you might be able to see past the eccentrically manicured facial hair and voluminous velveteen knickerbockers and identify some of the individuals in the painting: 'That's the Comte De Dinan. Notice how De Cloet has painted him holding a wilted stick of celery as a reference to his rumoured impotence...'
Because I have read this Substack for a while, I remember a time when your father was very low in mood, which is an understatement. It was worrying. Our mental state is the foundation upon which which we base our interactions with the world. When you are in recovery from an illness or an accident, a lingering depression can be the end of you.
I thought back to when I worked in the Oncology Department in Southend Hospital and how normal the patients were. If you had taken them out of the waiting room and placed them in some other social context, no-one would have guessed that many of them had only months left to live. They were preoccupied with the same things that preoccupy people who aren't terminally ill: The woman who was outraged that her treatment cycle would cause her to miss a performance at the opera; the old man who used to cycle to his radiotherapy appointments; the woman who broke her shoulder reaching for a hat box on a high shelf; the man who informed me that Dr Fanny's skirt was so short you could almost see her fanny; the woman who asked me for directions to the Nuclear Medicine Department, who grabbed my arse when I told her that I'd take her all the way and remarked “It's been a while since anybody's said that to me”. I took no offence because there was no malice in it, and because there are mitigating circumstances where I feel that it is acceptable for a stranger to grab my arse.
It is a truism that in the wake of tragedy, no matter how awful, we return to old dispositions.
I thought about your father, who I only know through his books and his films and his TV dramas. There is a certain dry humour; the broad spectrum humanity laid bare. I thought, if he can get back on home ground there will be an improvement, even though life can never again be as it once was.
I wonder if any friendships were kindled at your father's bedside; any collaborations between people who might otherwise have never met. I still follow Paul – your father's suicidal friend. He has his own Substack. He is very clever man. His body may have been broken by the world but his intellect remains enviably intact. I hope that, in time, he will be able to make peace with his injuries, as awful as they are, and find the joy and fresh purpose in life that he deserves.
Thank you! Thank you! I’ve been along with you all since very early after accident. I’ve prayed and kept my faith alive for a recovery that finally brought Hanif home and into more difficult situations! We’ve become a huge family around the world laughing and weeping together. Praying and whooping and sometimes cussing and slamming doors w the frustration of weeks of TIME going by as the myriad bureaucracies created various sections of the path that now supports living connections w you all in the barbershop.
I believe this is the best money I’ve ever earned and spent in one place! I’ve finally retired from clinical social work in a beautiful but economically impoverished county in Northern California.. . And your family’s devotion, along with everyone’s grit and humor, keep my Belief in Humanity
Uplifted and Willing to make my own continuing efforts to bring my best in every adventure out my own door.
I send you each great love and continuing prayers for all of us … around this struggling world.
Beautifully written, thank you. I was in Rome earlier this month and I thought of your dad and of how quickly things I take for granted can be lost. I'm glad to see that your father's way with words has been passed down to your generation--and I'm grateful for the update.
The weekly hospital dispatches from your father and, more infrequently, from those in his familial circle, painted the image of him as the centrepiece of a reconceived nativity scene. I imagined it in terms of one of those gigantic oil paintings that are always ostentatiously framed in gilded wood and are, in fact, so huge that the galleries in which they hang aren't sufficiently large enough for you to stand back and absorb the entire canvas. You have to take it in piecemeal, which was perhaps the intention of the creators of these works – that the viewer be immersed in the painting, as opposed to seeing it as God might perceive it, in its entirety. The subject of these group portraits is often a convergence of European nobility. They are usually rich in symbolism, if you know where to look. If you are an academically inclined person of culture (sadly, I am a unrefined brute) then you might be able to see past the eccentrically manicured facial hair and voluminous velveteen knickerbockers and identify some of the individuals in the painting: 'That's the Comte De Dinan. Notice how De Cloet has painted him holding a wilted stick of celery as a reference to his rumoured impotence...'
Because I have read this Substack for a while, I remember a time when your father was very low in mood, which is an understatement. It was worrying. Our mental state is the foundation upon which which we base our interactions with the world. When you are in recovery from an illness or an accident, a lingering depression can be the end of you.
I thought back to when I worked in the Oncology Department in Southend Hospital and how normal the patients were. If you had taken them out of the waiting room and placed them in some other social context, no-one would have guessed that many of them had only months left to live. They were preoccupied with the same things that preoccupy people who aren't terminally ill: The woman who was outraged that her treatment cycle would cause her to miss a performance at the opera; the old man who used to cycle to his radiotherapy appointments; the woman who broke her shoulder reaching for a hat box on a high shelf; the man who informed me that Dr Fanny's skirt was so short you could almost see her fanny; the woman who asked me for directions to the Nuclear Medicine Department, who grabbed my arse when I told her that I'd take her all the way and remarked “It's been a while since anybody's said that to me”. I took no offence because there was no malice in it, and because there are mitigating circumstances where I feel that it is acceptable for a stranger to grab my arse.
It is a truism that in the wake of tragedy, no matter how awful, we return to old dispositions.
I thought about your father, who I only know through his books and his films and his TV dramas. There is a certain dry humour; the broad spectrum humanity laid bare. I thought, if he can get back on home ground there will be an improvement, even though life can never again be as it once was.
I wonder if any friendships were kindled at your father's bedside; any collaborations between people who might otherwise have never met. I still follow Paul – your father's suicidal friend. He has his own Substack. He is very clever man. His body may have been broken by the world but his intellect remains enviably intact. I hope that, in time, he will be able to make peace with his injuries, as awful as they are, and find the joy and fresh purpose in life that he deserves.
Thank you! Thank you! I’ve been along with you all since very early after accident. I’ve prayed and kept my faith alive for a recovery that finally brought Hanif home and into more difficult situations! We’ve become a huge family around the world laughing and weeping together. Praying and whooping and sometimes cussing and slamming doors w the frustration of weeks of TIME going by as the myriad bureaucracies created various sections of the path that now supports living connections w you all in the barbershop.
I believe this is the best money I’ve ever earned and spent in one place! I’ve finally retired from clinical social work in a beautiful but economically impoverished county in Northern California.. . And your family’s devotion, along with everyone’s grit and humor, keep my Belief in Humanity
Uplifted and Willing to make my own continuing efforts to bring my best in every adventure out my own door.
I send you each great love and continuing prayers for all of us … around this struggling world.
You’re a chip off the old bloke [sic]
A beautifully crafted and moving piece, loved it.
Looking forward to reading more from you. Send your dad my warmest regards.
Beautifully written, thank you. I was in Rome earlier this month and I thought of your dad and of how quickly things I take for granted can be lost. I'm glad to see that your father's way with words has been passed down to your generation--and I'm grateful for the update.
So many moments keenly observed and experienced by your son Sachin. I feel very privileged to read his finely written essay. Thank you Sachin.
Thank you, I loved this.
Wonderful, witty, sensitive account. Your Dad must be so proud of you !👏👏👏👏
Beautifully written. It moved me too much for words to express.
love it
Wonderful Sachin. It's as if one voice flows through two people.
Beautiful piece Sachin . Please keep writing essays ( not just screenplays ) 😊
Beautifully written piece. Love and prayers from Toronto 🇨🇦🌹❤️
Love this! ❤️
Loved this
Beautiful
Dry but heartfelt. This is good.