My father, Om Nath Garg (1938-2026)

By Anu Garg

My father passed away in Mumbai last week. He was 88. He is survived by his wife, four children, seven grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.

I got my bibliomania from my dad, though it may be more accurate to call him a bibliotaph.

He worked for the state government in a job that took him from village to village. His charge was rural development, which meant, by definition, that he was posted in places with no electricity, no running water, and a one-room school. It may sound like a life of deprivation. To us children, it was idyllic. We did not know what we were missing.

After school, we played under the mango trees, chased butterflies, and played cricket even though we weren't born with the sports gene. We came home at dusk. Mom lit a kerosene lamp and helped us with our homework.

Each new posting meant packing up, moving, and then unpacking. The furniture might get dented, but nothing should happen to his books. No wonder my mother got sick of books. After retirement, they settled in Mumbai, and I would visit them twice a year for their birthdays: Dad's in Jan and Mom's in Aug.

During one of those visits a few years ago, mom's frustration bubbled up again. "See all these books, everywhere? I don't know what to do!"

I said, "Aren't you glad his addiction is books? It could have been alcohol, cigarettes, or, heaven forbid, golf?" It pleased Dad no end. He said, "Anu, this is the first time you have taken my side."

In a world that often felt like a million-piece jigsaw puzzle with no reference image, books were his refuge. They said what they meant, and they meant what they said.

Just like him.

With my parents in Mumbai during a birthday celebration on Zoom