My Father

One day, a man was born to the village his grandfather owned. The village of Musapur, India. They named him Prabhash, and he was beloved by everyone.

At night, Prabhash would lay on the roof with his brothers and many cousins. They would listen to the peacocks sing, and wonder how close the stars really were. They would watch Bollywood films on screens bigger than a house, and walk the village streets, lined with food and shop-owners, playing harmless pranks, and it was clear how much this little boy loved life, and especially his family.

When he became a young man, at twenty-five, he went on an adventure to America with his brother. He was sad to leave his home, but they gave him strength. He learned to work very hard, how not to take life too seriously, and was never anything less than himself. With this armor, he fought off every possible foe. Everyone on his adventure soon learned that this man was very special, not only because he worked hard, but because he was also kind, and not everyone could boast such a combo.

He soon fell in love with a beautiful redhead and her two children. They got married in summer, and had a little girl, whom he named after his mother.

For more than twenty-five years they lived how they wanted. Prabhash created light out of darkness, for he was an artist, and ‘painted’ with charcoal, showing his family that with patience one can tame even the most temperamental instruments. He told them stories, and made them laugh every day, for his humor was unlike anyone else’s, and this kept their hearts light. It was hard for them to share Prabhash with anyone. But he was too wonderful to keep to themselves; he became a realtor, and gave others laughter and home, just as he did for his own family. He taught people not to take life too seriously, and to just be happy – and his every action made it so.

And so inevitably, when his heart found it needed home again, the scales found that his heart was lighter than the lightest feather; and though no one wanted to share him, they knew they must yet again. But they could be happy, because he had been their happiness all along.

A quote by Bhash on art, though if anything spoke of how he lived, this is it:

“Taught by nature, honed by life, sharpened by experience, and inspired by love. Guided by the wise, I expose my inner self and display it on paper. With acquired patience I sink into velvet shadows, inviting the warmth of light to embrace the comfort of darkness. Creating a balance, a harmony, to invoke a smile, to hopefully release some old and new emotions, and connect with exciting places in the heart of the viewer, I endeavor to stay rooted in the basics of life.”

Born to - Father: Nasib Kandola Mother: Sushila Kandola

Survived by: His wife of 25 years Debra Kandola, his children Cristin Bush, Marcus Bush, and Sushila Kandola, and his brother Rajesh Kandola

After my father passed, we began looking. Through pictures and files and things that held a strange stillness. I found a story he had written for me when I was a baby. The sweetest, purest story, about me, and an owl who had hurt his wings. The owl didn’t know what to do. And this story was filled with the simplest kind of magic, and so lovingly copied in multiple drafts. It was just as when he told me stories, and I would laugh and laugh, and our life held the simplest magic as well. The story was unfinished. The owl didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t either just then, reading it. My wings were hirt too. But with this kind of magic, I could finish the story one day. I knew I could, and he did too. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Having something that makes you want to keep the story going.