He of jaggery and battery acid
I planned to write this on my Dad's birthday, but it's been more than a fortnight and that didn't happen. I thought I'd at least get it up by Father's Day, but no luck there as well. Now, I'm sneakily writing this and setting the publish date to his birthday:P--turning back the clock metaphorically.
To do justice to this article, I have to travel back in time by two decades. Those were the days when my world revolved around just two people. My father was one of them. My first memories are of waiting for him to call in the afternoon. No matter how busy he was, regardless of whether he was having a good or a bad day, he would call home, exactly at lunch. I used to race to the antiquated landline telephone at the first ring, knowing that it had to be him. His gruff voice would carry a tiny edge of sweetness that fathers reserve just to talk to their daughters. His syllables would slightly soften--as if the rough notes in them could actually hurt me. We would converse in a language of our own. A language full of toddler words; words that were phonetically easy and whose etymology would sometimes be my mangling of existing words. How we understood each other was a miracle--but somehow we did.
In the afternoon, I would lie in bed looking at the clock every now and then, waiting for it to show the magic number that was 4.30. That would be mostly when he came home. I would listen, ears cocked like a spaniel, alert for the familiar sounds of his ancient scooter and the lifting of the gate latch. The moment that bizarre combination of sounds struck my ear, I would run like the wind, past the front door and out the gate, a huge grin plastered on my face. The happiness was mutual. He would hold my hand and walk me into the door, asking about my day and telling me about his, all the while reaching into his pocket/bag for something he'd gotten me. His gifts would range from the ordinary to outright ridiculous, and I would accept them all with the fascination and unconditional love of a child.
One of the things I loved the most about him was how he set up our equation. It was not the ironclad rule of a monarch, it was never that. He fluidly molded himself into whatever I needed, whenever I needed--playmate, sibling, friend, parent, advisor, confidante--he was all of that. But what I craved most at that age was to be treated like an adult. I hated being a child.
Once when I was 5 or 6, he had the bonnet of his car open and was fiddling around with something. I would always be a part of whatever he did, and I didn't see any reason why this should be different. I walked up to him and demanded that he let me in on whatever he was doing and make me a part of it. He told me that he was refilling the distilled water in the car battery, upon which I asked him to let me try it. He replied that the battery had sulphuric acid and that it would burn my hands; therefore he wouldn't let me touch it. You are touching it, how does it not burn you? was my only reply. He refused, because he wouldn't take a chance with me. But I was equally stubborn, if not more. He eventually gave in, and I got to do what I wanted. He grew in my eyes a lot that day. It would have taken him very little effort to yell at me and rebuke me for interfering in matters outside my realm. He would have been right had he done so, because he would have still had my interests at heart. Instead, he treated me as an equal, listened to my opinion and let me try out things for myself, while also being there to protect and guide me. I loved him for giving me independence and freedom, for not chaining me to his opinions and ideas.
Nothing could engage my attention as much as he did. He was the only playmate I had, and I looked forward to playing every game he devised. Again, he was very creative in these things. The games would range from outdoor to indoor, from board games to quizzes, and would involve all kinds of props ranging from the map to the chair. I have wonderful memories of these games, and it brings a smile on my face to just think about them. Some of my favorites were finding a place on the map, finding a word in the dictionary and these kinds of things. I was also a maverick of math puzzles and math-magic-tricks, and I would constantly be on the lookout for them. I would learn them solely to practice them on him, and that Voila moment would always be very gleeful for me.
He was an enigma to me. I wanted to know all that he had been and every experience that shaped him. I would pester him for anecdotes from his life, but would almost never succeed. Occasionally, he would tell me the odd story that I would eagerly lap up. I built a list for him, just like the one Watson made for Sherlock. From it, I knew that he was an excellent marksman, a wonderful actor and someone with a knack for numbers. He was also a pragmatist, and gave up his dreams in return for a secure job.
He was the yardstick I used to measure myself against. I used to look up to him to no end, and my only aim in life was to be that amazing. I wanted to be as tall as him. As well read as him. As educated as him. As smart as him. Honestly, even if I looked at him as an outsider, I would still say the same thing. He has this thirst for learning that is just unquenchable-- he has a bachelors in physics, a bachelors in commerce, a bachelors in law and is a practising chartered accountant--and yet, not once have I heard him say that he's learned enough. Around 5 years ago, he told me he'd signed up for an Information Systems course and proceeded to ask me doubts from his study material. Not many people on the other side of 60 do this--I really am proud. And now, at 69, if you ask him what his dream is, he tells you he wants to fly a plane. He spends hours on youtube watching flight simulation videos, landings and takeoffs, and he says he'd love to pilot one, even if it is just using a simulator.
I despise parents who treat girls as fragile porcelain dolls. Fortunately, my father was not one among those. He was a tough taskmaster--but he also knew my limits exactly. He would make things tough enough to challenge me, and yet easy enough not to discourage me. I grew up discovering my strengths and working on my weaknesses. It wouldn't be truthful to say that things have always been amicable between us, but the disagreements have always been superficial. There have been days when I have hated him for not letting me rest, for dragging me along from one activity to the next relentlessly. But I am stronger for that, and better equipped to deal with life.
We had our rituals. One of the most consistent was this: Every time I scraped my knee or hurt myself, he would be there with a lump of jaggery. Somehow, that was more comforting than any words he could have used to console me. I would grit my teeth against the pain, will my tears not to fall and take that sphere of love,solace and encouragement from his outstretched palm. As I let it melt in my mouth, I would slowly forget the pain and only remember my father's smile. No words were necessary. It was a simple gesture, its profundity centered in its simplicity. There was no hurt in this world that my father couldn't soothe away with a lump of jaggery.
He was the one who got me into reading, and writing too I think. I loved both, and one thing I've consistently asked for over the years is books. He managed to keep track of what I liked, what I'd already read and what I wanted to read--he provided me with books accordingly. Out of the 1000 books I've probably read till date, 500 would be attributed to him :D This is no mean feat to accomplish, and I'm very grateful he was up to the task.
Far before I was even aware of stereotypes, I always associated the word strong with my father. When I was around 10, he lost his mother. He had previously lost his father. That evening, I heard him crying. I stood outside his room silently, petrified by the sound of his heart-wrenching sobs, stunned that something had shaken this man who was the very epitome of toughness. Ultimately, I walked in, because there was no way I would let him go through it alone. Why are you crying? I stupidly asked him, as if losing a parent wasn't reason enough. Because I am an orphan now. Both my parents are gone, and I feel alone in this world. I sat next to him and laced my fingers into his; I had no words that would make him feel better. He didn't flinch from sharing his sorrow with me, young as I was, and that was another reason I loved him. His vulnerability did not make him any less strong in my eyes, but only gave him more emotional depth. I felt his sorrow as my own, and in that moment, I would have done anything to take it away from him. Thereafter, I asked my Mom discreetly if he was okay or had been crying. She replied in the negative telling me that my father was not a man of emotions, and I did not correct her, but I knew differently. I had seen his emotions. It was a secret we shared. It would never be mentioned, but it changed our dynamics. Even today, I see past the facades he puts on for the world. Beneath that mask of cool indifference, there are a myriad of emotions.
My father is a man of knowledge, spanning the most bizarre subjects in this world. He has an extremely keen sense of geography,navigation and direction, all of which I sadly failed to inherit. Recently, a friend was texting me, and was telling me that she could not find something using maps. I asked her what, and she said something like this: "I'm taking a bus to Gokarna, and the bus is arriving from Banshankari. I'm boarding it at Rajajinagar, and I'm taking the metro from Vivekananda. Which exit should I take? " I looked it up on Maps, and as she'd said, I couldn't find the correlation between the exit gates of the metro and the route. My dad happened to cross me that exact moment, and I posed the question to him. He replied, without even batting an eyelid, and I conveyed it to my friend. She was elated, and said to me: "Your dad is better than Google". Another time, when we were traveling from Bangalore to Murudeshwar, I lost signal on my phone. No surprise there, my Dad knew of 3 routes we could take, and all the places we'd pass by on each of them. Even the driver was amazed:D
He can be extremely charismatic when it pleases him and equally cranky when it doesn't. Over the years, I've come to know him better and better. And our relationship has changed by leaps and bounds when compared to what I've written here. He obviously isn't perfect and has his flaws, and because I've spent almost all of my life in his company, I sometimes forget how good he is. But today is one day where I'm trying to write all that down, because he really is magical, and I'm really grateful to call him my Father. :)
Wishing you many more happy returns of the day! If I were given a chance to revisit my childhood, I would choose to go back to one day where I could relive these moments again. To savor them and cherish them and to embed each tiny nuance into my brain. So that I'll never forget what it is to be your daughter. Loads of Love. :)
To do justice to this article, I have to travel back in time by two decades. Those were the days when my world revolved around just two people. My father was one of them. My first memories are of waiting for him to call in the afternoon. No matter how busy he was, regardless of whether he was having a good or a bad day, he would call home, exactly at lunch. I used to race to the antiquated landline telephone at the first ring, knowing that it had to be him. His gruff voice would carry a tiny edge of sweetness that fathers reserve just to talk to their daughters. His syllables would slightly soften--as if the rough notes in them could actually hurt me. We would converse in a language of our own. A language full of toddler words; words that were phonetically easy and whose etymology would sometimes be my mangling of existing words. How we understood each other was a miracle--but somehow we did.
In the afternoon, I would lie in bed looking at the clock every now and then, waiting for it to show the magic number that was 4.30. That would be mostly when he came home. I would listen, ears cocked like a spaniel, alert for the familiar sounds of his ancient scooter and the lifting of the gate latch. The moment that bizarre combination of sounds struck my ear, I would run like the wind, past the front door and out the gate, a huge grin plastered on my face. The happiness was mutual. He would hold my hand and walk me into the door, asking about my day and telling me about his, all the while reaching into his pocket/bag for something he'd gotten me. His gifts would range from the ordinary to outright ridiculous, and I would accept them all with the fascination and unconditional love of a child.
One of the things I loved the most about him was how he set up our equation. It was not the ironclad rule of a monarch, it was never that. He fluidly molded himself into whatever I needed, whenever I needed--playmate, sibling, friend, parent, advisor, confidante--he was all of that. But what I craved most at that age was to be treated like an adult. I hated being a child.
Once when I was 5 or 6, he had the bonnet of his car open and was fiddling around with something. I would always be a part of whatever he did, and I didn't see any reason why this should be different. I walked up to him and demanded that he let me in on whatever he was doing and make me a part of it. He told me that he was refilling the distilled water in the car battery, upon which I asked him to let me try it. He replied that the battery had sulphuric acid and that it would burn my hands; therefore he wouldn't let me touch it. You are touching it, how does it not burn you? was my only reply. He refused, because he wouldn't take a chance with me. But I was equally stubborn, if not more. He eventually gave in, and I got to do what I wanted. He grew in my eyes a lot that day. It would have taken him very little effort to yell at me and rebuke me for interfering in matters outside my realm. He would have been right had he done so, because he would have still had my interests at heart. Instead, he treated me as an equal, listened to my opinion and let me try out things for myself, while also being there to protect and guide me. I loved him for giving me independence and freedom, for not chaining me to his opinions and ideas.
Nothing could engage my attention as much as he did. He was the only playmate I had, and I looked forward to playing every game he devised. Again, he was very creative in these things. The games would range from outdoor to indoor, from board games to quizzes, and would involve all kinds of props ranging from the map to the chair. I have wonderful memories of these games, and it brings a smile on my face to just think about them. Some of my favorites were finding a place on the map, finding a word in the dictionary and these kinds of things. I was also a maverick of math puzzles and math-magic-tricks, and I would constantly be on the lookout for them. I would learn them solely to practice them on him, and that Voila moment would always be very gleeful for me.
He was an enigma to me. I wanted to know all that he had been and every experience that shaped him. I would pester him for anecdotes from his life, but would almost never succeed. Occasionally, he would tell me the odd story that I would eagerly lap up. I built a list for him, just like the one Watson made for Sherlock. From it, I knew that he was an excellent marksman, a wonderful actor and someone with a knack for numbers. He was also a pragmatist, and gave up his dreams in return for a secure job.
He was the yardstick I used to measure myself against. I used to look up to him to no end, and my only aim in life was to be that amazing. I wanted to be as tall as him. As well read as him. As educated as him. As smart as him. Honestly, even if I looked at him as an outsider, I would still say the same thing. He has this thirst for learning that is just unquenchable-- he has a bachelors in physics, a bachelors in commerce, a bachelors in law and is a practising chartered accountant--and yet, not once have I heard him say that he's learned enough. Around 5 years ago, he told me he'd signed up for an Information Systems course and proceeded to ask me doubts from his study material. Not many people on the other side of 60 do this--I really am proud. And now, at 69, if you ask him what his dream is, he tells you he wants to fly a plane. He spends hours on youtube watching flight simulation videos, landings and takeoffs, and he says he'd love to pilot one, even if it is just using a simulator.
I despise parents who treat girls as fragile porcelain dolls. Fortunately, my father was not one among those. He was a tough taskmaster--but he also knew my limits exactly. He would make things tough enough to challenge me, and yet easy enough not to discourage me. I grew up discovering my strengths and working on my weaknesses. It wouldn't be truthful to say that things have always been amicable between us, but the disagreements have always been superficial. There have been days when I have hated him for not letting me rest, for dragging me along from one activity to the next relentlessly. But I am stronger for that, and better equipped to deal with life.
We had our rituals. One of the most consistent was this: Every time I scraped my knee or hurt myself, he would be there with a lump of jaggery. Somehow, that was more comforting than any words he could have used to console me. I would grit my teeth against the pain, will my tears not to fall and take that sphere of love,solace and encouragement from his outstretched palm. As I let it melt in my mouth, I would slowly forget the pain and only remember my father's smile. No words were necessary. It was a simple gesture, its profundity centered in its simplicity. There was no hurt in this world that my father couldn't soothe away with a lump of jaggery.
He was the one who got me into reading, and writing too I think. I loved both, and one thing I've consistently asked for over the years is books. He managed to keep track of what I liked, what I'd already read and what I wanted to read--he provided me with books accordingly. Out of the 1000 books I've probably read till date, 500 would be attributed to him :D This is no mean feat to accomplish, and I'm very grateful he was up to the task.
Far before I was even aware of stereotypes, I always associated the word strong with my father. When I was around 10, he lost his mother. He had previously lost his father. That evening, I heard him crying. I stood outside his room silently, petrified by the sound of his heart-wrenching sobs, stunned that something had shaken this man who was the very epitome of toughness. Ultimately, I walked in, because there was no way I would let him go through it alone. Why are you crying? I stupidly asked him, as if losing a parent wasn't reason enough. Because I am an orphan now. Both my parents are gone, and I feel alone in this world. I sat next to him and laced my fingers into his; I had no words that would make him feel better. He didn't flinch from sharing his sorrow with me, young as I was, and that was another reason I loved him. His vulnerability did not make him any less strong in my eyes, but only gave him more emotional depth. I felt his sorrow as my own, and in that moment, I would have done anything to take it away from him. Thereafter, I asked my Mom discreetly if he was okay or had been crying. She replied in the negative telling me that my father was not a man of emotions, and I did not correct her, but I knew differently. I had seen his emotions. It was a secret we shared. It would never be mentioned, but it changed our dynamics. Even today, I see past the facades he puts on for the world. Beneath that mask of cool indifference, there are a myriad of emotions.
My father is a man of knowledge, spanning the most bizarre subjects in this world. He has an extremely keen sense of geography,navigation and direction, all of which I sadly failed to inherit. Recently, a friend was texting me, and was telling me that she could not find something using maps. I asked her what, and she said something like this: "I'm taking a bus to Gokarna, and the bus is arriving from Banshankari. I'm boarding it at Rajajinagar, and I'm taking the metro from Vivekananda. Which exit should I take? " I looked it up on Maps, and as she'd said, I couldn't find the correlation between the exit gates of the metro and the route. My dad happened to cross me that exact moment, and I posed the question to him. He replied, without even batting an eyelid, and I conveyed it to my friend. She was elated, and said to me: "Your dad is better than Google". Another time, when we were traveling from Bangalore to Murudeshwar, I lost signal on my phone. No surprise there, my Dad knew of 3 routes we could take, and all the places we'd pass by on each of them. Even the driver was amazed:D
He can be extremely charismatic when it pleases him and equally cranky when it doesn't. Over the years, I've come to know him better and better. And our relationship has changed by leaps and bounds when compared to what I've written here. He obviously isn't perfect and has his flaws, and because I've spent almost all of my life in his company, I sometimes forget how good he is. But today is one day where I'm trying to write all that down, because he really is magical, and I'm really grateful to call him my Father. :)
Wishing you many more happy returns of the day! If I were given a chance to revisit my childhood, I would choose to go back to one day where I could relive these moments again. To savor them and cherish them and to embed each tiny nuance into my brain. So that I'll never forget what it is to be your daughter. Loads of Love. :)
This was really warm. I felt like I was there too :o
ReplyDeleteThankss! Took a lot of effort to convey that intensity. :D
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