Five Airlines Toffees, reposted

"Five Toffees", said my colleague to me today. "Five Airlines Toffees", she repeated emphatically seeing my puzzled look, "Five Airlines Toffees!!!"

The third time she said it, my brain finally made the connection. "But how did you hear of it?", I asked, knowing what her answer would be, but amazed that she had made the connection.

A couple of weeks after my father passed away, my reminiscence crystallised into a piece that I called "Five Airlines Toffees". I shared it with a few people, some of whom reacted to it in a manner I hoped they would. On the second anniversary of his passing away, I posted it on my blog, and often sent the link to a few people I thought may understand. And there it remained till December last year, when I was asked if I wanted to contribute a piece to the second edition of "Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul".

My colleague apparently picked up the book, liked the piece, thought the name of the contributor sounded familiar, checked the bio, and realised it was me. I was thrilled beyond belief, because I have yet to come out of the closet as far as my writing is concerned, and never thought a day might come when someone I knew would read and like a piece I wrote even before knowing it was written by me. Makes me start believing in myself a little more as a writer!

I thanked her profusely, but she insisted she was the one that should be thanking me, because "the last line has been haunting me for days, and you know what, it is true." Could anyone ever pay a greater compliment to a writer than by telling them that something they wrote made them stop and think?

And here's the story, reposted.

Five Airlines Toffees

It was always five airlines toffees. Everytime he travelled, my father would bring me five toffees - never four, never six, always five. There may have been some significance to that number, but I suspect, that like most traditions, it just happened.
Sometimes he'd come back from trips loaded with gifts - sweets from the best confectioner in town, pretty cardigans, pearl necklaces, books and toys - sometimes, he would just not have found the time to shop. But he never came home without those five airlines toffees.
I started working around the same time he retired, and the tradition was reversed. Now, I was the one who'd bring five airlines toffees everytime I came to visit, and he was the one who'd gleefully polish them off in one sitting.
Parkinson's started claiming his body, and dementia his mind, but his sweet tooth remained his own. The last few times I visited him, he barely recognised me. But when he saw the toffees, he proudly said, “My daughter gets me these toffees too.”
Last July, I was on a plane winging homewards. I'd just got the news that my father's heart had finally given up. There was Regret (that I missed seeing him by just four days), Remorse (that I would never again watch him watching my son throw a ball at him), Relief (that he'd finally shed the body and mind that constrained him and could go back to being the man he was meant to be) - but, no tears. How does one cry for the passing on of a man who is not really your father, and who your father would have hated becoming?
After settling in the kid, and putting the baby to breast, I buckled my seat belt and was waiting for the plane to take-off, when the stewardess came around with the tray of airlines toffees. My hands automatically reached out for the tray, then pulled back - never again would I pick five airlines toffees from that tray. The dam burst; tears flowed.
Before deplaning, I asked the stewardess for five airlines toffees.
When we journey to the other world, we are not supposed to take anything with us, but as his ashes floated down the river, my father had something clenched in his fists - five airlines toffees to sustain him on the Journey.

When I travel, I will always pick up five airlines toffees. Some traditions are worth investing in.