Stranger Dad

I do not know my dad. He is a stranger I lived with for twenty-four years. I don’t know what sustains him, what philosophies he follows or what secrets trouble him. Then what do I know of him? Of the man who raised me through my most vulnerable years…what do I know of him?

His discipline. Waking at 6:00 a.m. sharp everyday. Making tea for the women of the household- his wife and two dotters. Waking them up. Bathing himself in cold water through all seasons. Eating breakfast sharp at 7:15 a.m.Fretting and fuming when it is late. Leaving house for work at ten minutes to eight. Coming back for lunch at 1:30 p.m.– sometimes with bananas, grapes, or if it be the summers, a dozen of ‘baiganphalli’ mangoes–driving all the way back home ten kilometers or so to have ghar ka garam garam khana, simple fare–strictly vegeterian for him, a generous helping of yoghurt and the fresh fruits for dessert.

His disease. High blood Pressure. He quit non-vegeterian food. He wouldn’t tolerate salty food. He was a morning walker, though not the regular one, may be four months in a year.

His idea of fun. Family get-togethers. Booze. Yearly picnics. Organizing functions with members of his community. Restaurant outings with his family of four once in a while. A yearly trip of nostalgia back to his hometown to meet up with relatives but mostly to soak up the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of his native land up close in order to sustain him through the rigour of raising a family in another place, far off, where the soot of factories has almost given him anosmia and the machinery ruckus has made him hard of hearing.

His dreams and desires. Part realised but some cruelly broken by his own kith and kin. He survives still.

His love as a parent.I am glad he is still there.I am gladder he let me be. I may not really know him but I have been comfortable living with his strangeness and he with mine. That’s all that matters.