I remember watching a video reel once of an old man taking his pet turtle out for a walk. The act is so innocent, carefree, nonchalant, and unperturbed that the image says a zillion words without actually trying. It teleports me instantly to an extremely important person in my life.
When a picture wields that kind of power over your senses, you realize the real import of its existence in your universe. That it fell in front of you for a reason, that it got created in the first place to inspire an ounce of emotion. Now that I have started writing about it, I feel its job in my world is done.
When I think of the image, it brings to mind an image of my dad. When I watch him go about in the house from one place to another, all I see is that innocence in the image. He is like a cute cuddly panda, moving around from one place to another. All his little fancies, I have taken a fancy to. I see his itsy-bitsy mischief in his reckless desires. I find him slaving away at his plantations, at some in-house carpentry, on house renovations, often trying various ways to find solutions, and I get this urge to hug him tight and say, “You are such a baby! I love you so much!” Funny how life interchanges roles.
One of the greatest advantages that I have leveraged over the years using the power of listening is that listening has helped me understand the psyche of people. The fact that no father would ever place himself first over his family makes you realize that he has been still wearing the same old piece of cloth he had all along when he had bought you your first fancy clothes. You were so blinded with joy that you didn’t see past your attire that day.
It is only when you walk in his shoes that you realize that they are torn.
Knowing what he needs is a silent understanding. He would never ask anything of you, and if he ever does, consider it a privilege.
My father now retired at the age of 60 has earned the official title of an old man. He has performed his duties right, walked on a long sinuous path full of hardships. If you try to tell his story, a book might not suffice, or you would probably run out of words. Perchance my words won’t be enough or do justice to the events, or come even close to tasting his escapades first hand.
So much has happened over the course of his timeline that it is nearly impossible to narrate. From a directionless humble beginning in a small village to a retired Ex-Junior Warrant Officer in the prestigious Indian Air Force, it is a life well-lived. His profession spanned beyond that for another 20 years, taking care of us through thick and thin, until we were made capable of standing independently on our feet.
It was an experience per se, being an intrinsic part of his life, that we (me and my brother) got to experience first hand. Top that all with the superlative qualities of my old man, and it would put even his enemies to shame, not that he has any.
A boy who had lost his father at a very young age, he didn’t know how to be one. But we turned out fine, so I guess it was, after all, a job well done.
He had very humble beginnings as a village boy. My grandma was the epitome of sacrifice. She had wanted her son to get educated, so she made a living out of sewing clothes. While my father lived in a joint family, he received next to zero support from his kin. The fact that he had aspired to take care of them despite getting nothing in return, still beats me.
Being the eldest son, he had tons of responsibilities. He considered it his familial duty to look after his younger siblings. To make men out of boys, to see his sisters get settled in life. He considered it an obligation to teach everyone who knew nothing, to educate people around him, to be a stick to the incapacitated. I have often seen him falling behind to walk with the fallen.
Can’t believe my father took care of the expenses of the younglings in the family without expecting anything in return. Who does that? Why is his selfless service never rewarded? I have often debated with him on that topic but in his dictionary, family is a highly esteemed and revered word. The fact that even today everyone leans on him, counts on him to do stuff for them, is a concept that is very hard for me to understand. Primarily because I want every person to be independent, to not rely on anybody for their existence. But with him around, you see everyone inadvertently leaning on him. Even at an age, when he deserves a shoulder, many still burden him with their responsibilities.
My dad’s origins were akin to a lotus in the muck. He was always surrounded by greedy people. His decision to raise us away from a place where thefts, brawls, and scandals were a part and parcel of life, was probably the best decision of his life. Walking us through the countless walks of life, always by our side, holding our hands, only the fortunate get that kind of support, and I am extremely grateful for that.
I find pieces of love in the little things he does for me. The sweet nothings, the tiny caring packets that he drops off from his bundle of immense tenderness, make me want to cry my heart out. His decisions to do something or not do something so as to him not being trouble, makes me want to take away every load on his shoulder.
Goes without saying we might not see eye to eye on a lot of topics, with him being from a different time. The generation gap tries to pull us apart a ton, but there are so many things that I could think of that bandaids over all those disagreements.
Nothing I ever do could even come close to whatever he did or is still doing for us. It’s like the more I try to pay off my debt, the more indebted I end up becoming. It’s a neverending cycle of his gentleness, his warmth – the one that would always lull me to sleep whenever I would be next to him.
I have started creating some videos for him, of him narrating incidents from his life. I think that’s the least I could do as a gesture of payback.
Because I know there are some things he would never do for himself, like buying his own shirt. He remains modest in everything he is a part of, pointing out the whole pointless point of it. But I don’t care!
If I end up becoming even a morsel of what he is today, I would think I have managed to crack his vibe check.
Most importantly, I remain grateful to this life that has emanated from him. Everything is his. It is a life of debt that I have been living. Debted in servitude to every act of love, love that fathers barely show on the surface, or maybe they do, but have we ever been good in reading between the lines?