To The Man Who Loved and Lived-Part 11

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It has been four years since I've lost my father. Without my knowledge I go to depression around September 22. If anybody can hate a date this will be mine. I talked to my mother and brothers knowing they are hurting equally and going through the same emotions. According to Hindu calendar his Punyatithi (anniversary) falls this month. Due to the force majeure we all had to do it separately this year. I'm not someone who believes in these rituals, but did nonetheless to keep my mother at peace. So, did the siblings. I heard from little birds that someone commenting we don't love our father because we don't celebrate the anniversary in grand scale. I just laughed at the gossip. 

One had to know me, siblings, mother and father to understand what kind of relationship we share. The people who really know us get the family dynamics. Others, not much.

Losing my father left a permanent whole in my heart. None of the happy news will be the same that I cannot share with him. And difficult time will be bit stretching without him in my corner. He was my go-to man. He was the go-getter. Though I've started writing this blog when he was alive, not confident enough to share this with him. Or probably I didn't want my parents to get into my head. Now, even if I want to I could not. He would be proud of his little girl running three blogs meticulously. And maybe secretly admiring himself for passing on that writing gene.

I constantly talk to my father when I'm alone. He would not reply back obviously. For others this charade may sound psychotic, but it gives me a sense of assurance. I still can hear his bashful voice calling my pet names.

I wonder what he would have done in this pandemic. He would not have restricted himself from visiting town for buying the necessities. Isolating himself would not have been an issue since he would be busy farming. But he would have worried himself sick about his children (son-in-law and daughters-in-law) and grandchildren.

My heart aches for him to be part of our ordinary life, the happy, sad, and everyday milestones. I'm still angry at the universe for taking him away so soon. Not a single day passes without thinking about him or talking about him.

To the man who loved and lived-Part 5

My last aunt got married when I was in 4th standard. My grandmother has 5 daughters and aunt B was the last one to get hitched. Once she is gone my granny would be all alone. Grandpa was gone a long time ago. I moved in with her much to the dismal of my parents. When Ammamma requested my parents they could not say no. I was with her till class ten. For those 6 years my dad used to visit me every Sunday without fail but for the summer holidays. I was pathetic with English spellings back then. He made sure I get all the spellings right within a month. It was really a painful process if I remember it correctly. Helicopter parents were not fashionable then, but surely my father was one. I was not always happy to see him every weekend especially if I scored less in exams. Later I realized it was an effort for him to travel 40 kilometers to and fro on Sundays, the only holiday he gets in a week. He could have relaxed sitting at home, watching movie, reading book, writing or berating my unruly brothers. I know my father was a homebody. He was perfectly at peace staying at home doing all the Sunday chores. But deep down I know he couldn't stay long without seeing me. It was pure unconditional love.

When I joined college it was 200 KM away from home, the journey would take 6 hours by bus. My father came to drop me down and get me settled in the new town. I was shit-scared, but wouldn't show because I didn't want dad to worry about me. we went shopping together and brought all the essentials deemed necessary. I spent the night at hostel and he at the hotel. He was on time for the orientation. I was comforting him that I'l be alright and will take care of myself in the corridor. Then "D" approached us and introduced herself. What happened was during introduction session she got to know that both of us are from same district. After talking to her my father was somewhat relaxed and less stressed as if sensing this friendship is going to last a lifetime, however, I didn't know that just yet. After having lunch together we bid adieu to each other. Yes, my eyes were moist and I was just short of howling.

Why I was surprised when he was back again the next Sunday? He would have left home early morning to reach here at 12 o'clock. After spending 2 hours together he left at 2 in the noon. And he would have reached home around 8 o'clock. It was those days when pre-booking tickets was not possible. I don't know whether he got seat or traveled all the way standing. I never asked. Either I was insensitive or too busy making new friends, or both. That was pre-cell phone era and I would get call from home once a week, on Sundays. I used to write elaborate letters at least in the beginning.

For the first three months he visited me every month. Later I forbade him from doing so, convincing him it was economically more viable if I go home every month as I get to see my mother, brothers, grandmother and cousins. And I did so without fail throughout the course.

He coming to see me off wherever I go or whenever I go continued.  There was only one time my father didn't come to drop me off. That is a long story and for another post.

After wedding there is always hubby to drop me off and pick me up from native. It was like my father had passed on the baton of taking care of his little girl to the love of her life. For the unknown he did the same to my brothers as well. The unflinching love he had for us is heartbreaking.

Few years ago I had to visit native when Ammamma was fighting the tuberculosis as well as depression. Due to unavoidable circumstances Hubby couldn't accompany me. So, when I got off the bus there stood the man in white shirt and blue sarong (Kannada-lungi) holding an umbrella with a mischievous smile. That is the last time my father picked me up from a station. Apparently he got too tired of chaperoning us around. Perhaps he wanted his children to grow up and be independent. I would give up anything to be with that man again. He should have known that I don't want to grow up and I want to be in his overprotective cocoon forever.

To the man who loved and lived-Part 3

My father was a giver, the giver of love, care, and affection. I'm told five-and-a-half years of my life was split between my Ammamma's place and my parents'. I was the Apple of grand mom's and my aunts' eyes. Like a royalty I used to split my time between my parents' and grandmother's. Once every 15 days my father used to come and pick me up from my granny's home.  Mom tells me that every 15 days my father used to buy me a new dress. However, I don't have recollection of this.

Just before starting my first standard I was down with mumps. They say it was the first time I forced my dad to take me with him. I remember missing my Ammamma and aunts back then. He was very strict when it comes to the matter of studies.  He used to help picking up songs to be sung for the school music competition. Not that I was any good singer, though I believed myself to be the one for a very very long time. He was just good at it. It was he who wrote essays and speeches for my school events. How can I forget our every month's visit to movie theater? Both my parents were movie buffs. There were colourful tales of their movie escapades in the family gatherings. Its no wonder I inherited that gene from them. I don't remember taking beatings from him. I have to confess here. I was very thin and sickly girl back then. I used to act hyperventilating to avoid the punishment. So, he made me to do tables and copy writing many times, that was his way of disciplining me. That exercise was plain meaningless and tedious. I still don't understand why parents do that? But I will take that boring torture over the actual beating anytime for that matter.

We had not very nice neighbors back then. Their kids were bully and trouble makers. Now I think probably they also had the same opinion about us. Luckily we were a team of three and learnt very young to fight our own battles. Everything was under control until elders got involved. My mother is a soft, docile lady who is too fragile to support us. And genuinely she believed her kids are little rowdies and nuisance, which could be true if I recall those days. On the other hand we had our father's backing publicly and socially. He never flinched a moment to stand up for us. Later he interrogated and meted out his own little punishment to all of us, in my case copy writing. In that way we were never embarrassed in front of others, even though we were at fault. Isn't that a family supposed to do? 

Because of my dad's encouragement I never came home crying from bullying or harassment. Like every other child I truly believed my father is the strongest. He was the provider, caregiver, and an over protective father. They say you can't have favourite parent. Somehow I never shied away from saying my father was my favourite, and I think he always will be.