To The Man Who Loved and Lived-Part 8

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I had a dream of becoming a farmer, growing my own organic vegetables and fruits; and a beautiful garden in which flowers bloom throughout the year; of sipping high tea under the shadow of a mango tree; and walking hand-in-hand with hubby by the gorgeous pond under moonlight. I'm talking in past tense because that dream was shattered to pieces.

Flashback to year 2012. My father was building a house in his native, so he made sure to monitor the work-in progress twice or thrice a week. I had accompanied him only once or twice just to make him happy. I was against the idea of building a house in the native. First, it was very remote, 25 kilometers away from the town. Dad might have been born and brought up there, but he wasn't the same man residing in towns for almost 40 years. His lifestyle is different now and I wasn't sure he could cope up with the country life. And what about my mother? She isn't accustomed to that way of life either. Once I asked my Ammamma why she married my mother off to village that lacks basic amenities. Her answer was simple, your father has a transferable, government job, so she never has to stay there. Now his decision will impact her life drastically as well. Second, he is a retired man. This is his time to relax and enjoy, not to become a farmer. How can I not know, he is stubborn old coot much to my dismay. Now I don't wonder where did I get it from.

It was around Deepavali (festival of lights) time. Housewarming and nephew's naming ceremony was scheduled just a week later. So, one day I tagged along to watch the latest development of the housing. People were working fervently to meet the deadline. I wandered around the estate for a bit, throwing stones into the pond, hearing chirping of birds and crickets, and some phone photographing leaving my father behind with the workers. What I see when I return? My father was in work clothes, chopping the unwanted bushes and plants to make a clear walkway. I berated him for a long time about this menial job plonking my ass on a rock under a tree. He smiled and continued his work. After 30 minutes or so I started feeling guilty. What kind of a daughter I'm who sits idly while her old father does the hard labor? I picked a spare machete and started cutting the woods into pieces. It was cathartic and exhilarating in the beginning. Add another 15 minutes to it, I was completely drenched in sweat, panting like a dog, head spinning, and I couldn't feel my hand. Seeing my plight father ordered me to sit and sip some water. While I was trying to regain my composure and balance, dad resumed his activity without a break.

That is the exact zen moment where realization dawned upon me that I'm unfit to be a farmer now or forever, and my 60-year-old father can be and well at it. And he is to be blamed for my delicate and fragile strength. If he hasn't provided the cushioned life for us I would have toughened up. If he wasn't such a great father I wouldn't be this spoiled brat.