To you, fOther...

[I had planned a very different post. But the past week, two incidents happened. My dad sat me down and let me know his wishes. And then I read Umashankar’s Ghostwalker and Sudhagee’s Appa, incredibly moving posts dedicated to their fathers. I knew I had to say this now, write this now, and make peace while I can.]

Mother says you threatened to leave her if a girl was born. And that she was surprised when you held me with delight. And that for months afterwards you were the one who put me to sleep at night, rolling on your warm brown shoulders to the rumble of your rendition of that song ”Soja Rajkumari Soja” (sleep, princess, sleep). I was your princess, was I daddy?

And she says that you would have been happy if I just learnt to sign. But daddy, all I remember is your delight when I stood first in Class I. How you lifted me up in the air and swung me around! And I remember you patiently waiting outside for every entrance exam that I eventually failed, in that long queue for admission into Higher Secondary school, and the houses you visited hoping I would somehow get an admission into a prestigious school or college.

And she says that the puppy you brought home that July afternoon was for my brother. But daddy, wasn’t I always your eye candy? On the nights when I threw a tantrum, weren’t you the one who indulged me to eat? And those birthdays, when Mother would rage, weren’t you the one who slipped in money so I could celebrate outside? And remember, when Mother and bro had gone to grandparents, how you took me on a trip to North East? My first plane ride and how we missed the second flight and you sent me under the ticket counter to beg the manager for another ticket! You and I, daddy, wasn’t it special?

That is why I called you fOther, instead of fAther for I received my mother through you—you teared easily when I got hurt, and smiled gently when I triumphed, and hugged me when Mother declared that a girl during her periods was “untouchable.” To you I confessed my first love, with you I schemed to make mom agree. You, my gentle genie:

My genie left for coimbatore this morn. My dad=My genie. Why? Becoz everyday when I return from work, my bottle of water is filled, a fruit is kept on my desk & every now and then he triumphantly declares I had your clothes washed (to my embarrassment). A shoe with a broken sole--fixed next day. A loud wish "I want to..." fulfilled next day. So much so that I once said teasingly, "I think it is time for me to buy a car" to have the joy of watching him frenzily look through the car sale ads! A man whom I call "fOther" instead of "fAther"-a freudian slip that says I receive "mother" through him. This morn my gentle genie went to coimbatore and I am left desolate...

But where were you then, daddy, where were you? What was that Mother said...

As I ran over that dusty path called life, sand spraying, noontime of hot, humid days, perspiring heavily in fear, hair blown by the winds of change, dupatta of innocence trailing in the sky above, anklets of aspiration trembling, as I placed my stride, barefoot, toe first, on the gravely, sunburnt lifepath below. That somehow from the horizon you would appear, galloping on that brown horse, deftly and surely, hauling me up and continuing to that heaven of safety-- a whimpering desire to remain vulnerable, to remain fragile. 

Fother, I longed for you to be my Father.

Photo courtesy: M.S. Prasad

It is okay, it does not matter anymore.  Running on that dusty path called life has turned the princess into a man that Mother says you wanted, daddy. 

And I know that you don’t know how to ride, do you?  Orphaned at 11, a runaway at 16, exploring the mountains of North East, winding your way through the tea plantations of Assam and Darjeeling to the film industry in Kolkata, till one strange day, at the age of 35, you receive a note from a distant relative about seeing my mother. She was the first and perhaps would have been the only one.

I know, fother, our emotions are affected by our journeys. I too have inherited your qualities—I can love fiercely and then shed all with a certain brutal suddenness and completeness. It helps, fother, doesn’t it--to blunt memories and withdraw to the future, so one can live yet again?

Just let me know, if I can be your crown prince now.

Let us shift gear, shall we, and listen to this chirpy albeit little silly song...

Kundanapu Bomma from Ye Maya Chesave

[You may also like to read My mother, Her painted feet]