Cherishing Fathers

 

I began this piece a month ago. Mother’s Day messages proved catalyst for a thought that had germinated in my heart, yes heart, eons ago. I continue to be intrigued by the notion of a mother’s unconditional love rather than the more inclusive parents’ unconditional love. It seems rather unfair not to associate fathers with this beautiful and glorious emotion.  Mothers are paradoxical creatures. They are a bundle of contradictions – loveable and pampering at one moment, bullying and browbeating the next, to have you comply with their wishes no matter how inane or otherwise they may be. But fathers - (strictly in my view) they are less complex, more predictable and display greater flexibility in dealing with situations involving their children. While mothers carry us in their womb for ten long months, fathers hold us for a lifetime in their hearts, nurture and cherish us in ways we’d not ever be able to fathom. And all of this, expecting nothing in return from us.

 

Thus my story took wings when the final thrust came after I watched yesterday, ‘The Selfless Love of a Father’, a video presentation by spiritualist, author and orator Mahatria Ra on FB. And what better time to pen this piece as a tribute to an awesome father, than on the occasion of Father’s Day, observed in several parts of the globe on the third Sunday of June, or on 21 June.

 

I stood gazing out of the window at a bruised sky that was punctured by dark clouds and wondered when the downpour would begin. Just then I spotted the Parthasarathy couple, my very young preteen friend Sahana’s maternal grandparents make their way to her house. The pair, as young as my spouse JR and me, had a bag each, the one slung as a backpack, and the other held in the hand.

 

Strangely enough, I was reminded of my parents on seeing the twosome. My mind raced back four decades and events unfolded like elaborate origami art. Images that had been blissfully hibernating in the deep recesses of my mind, surfaced from their alcoves and I found myself enveloped by nostalgia.

 

It was exactly one day after my wedding when my parents visited me at my in-laws’ residence in Chennai. Anna, (that’s how we siblings call our father) handed over a bag to me as he enquired if I had slept well the previous night. I was dumbstruck and blinked back tears as I opened the bag to see my pillow, a sleek and soft-padded headrest, perhaps the only possession I’ve ever coveted. For, to enjoy restful slumber sans headaches, an obtrusive inheritance I could have done without, this almost-flat cushion has become a necessary adjunct for my wellbeing.

 

Two days later anna sprung another endearing surprise on me when he came to the railway station to see off JR and me to Mysuru. He gave me a paper cover full of the delicious ‘nongu’, the humble date palm fruit, or ice-apple as Westerners call it. We Delhi-ites would lust for this sweet jelly-like treat whenever we’d come down South for the summer break. As I gleefully helped myself to a few of them, he sheepishly confided, “I would have brought it to your place the other day, but wondered what your in-laws would think – bringing you such an inexpensive fruit, as if it’s exotic.”  But exotic it was for us Delhi residents, where it was not available then.  And it was simply anna all the way - ever thoughtful, always loving, ever mindful of the little and big likes and dislikes that we siblings have. With the passage of time, anna became versed with the favourites of his extended family - our respective spouses and children as well. Notwithstanding the varieties of chocolates that we ourselves would carry with us while visiting India, anna would never fail to greet my son, his first grandchild, with the Indian versions of the same, and pastries. JR to date, feasts on crisp fried potato curry and small onion sambar, the day we land at my parents’, thanks to anna meticulously purchasing the veggies, and amma ensuring that all ingredients went into their making in the right proportions.  

 

Through my growing years, I’ve heard amma recount innumerable times of how during my infant years, anna would ensure I had my daily quota of soup and fruit juice. He would take upon himself the chore of preparing these using fresh vegetables and fruits procured every day. I too recall the instances when anna would be at my bedside administering medicines whenever I’d fall sick while amma would be prostrating before the Almighty, enticing him with every kind of offering so that he would enable me to bounce back to health speedily.

 

For us siblings, having anna around, listening to the cricket commentaries in the 1970s, watching the Test matches with him on television, rushing to brew tea each time the players retired for lunch and tea-breaks, playing a few rounds of card games and carom with him, were sought after activities.

 

Despite the years, certain incidents do not dislimn from memory. They remain indelibly etched, ever-inspiring, forever heart-warming, leaving the eyes bedewed with the lachrymal secretions.  Do I speak of the day when he stood before me, a 5 Star bar in hand, gloating over a prize in school final that I was to receive, or of the times he took off from work to drop me at examination centres, or of the occasions when he accompanied me on my periodic visits to the clinic for check-ups when I was expecting! How could I forget the year-long jaunts he made to the site in Chennai when our house was being built? With gusto he would change two buses to reach the construction site to oversee that all was done well, while we ourselves remained in Dubai in the cosy comfort that he was taking care of it all.

 

The instances and incidents are one too many to recount. Of numerous such, some stand out more than others. The year was 1984. Following a moderately severe ligament rupture in my left foot, I arrived at my parents’ place in Delhi, from Dubai where we were then resident. With the foot on cast up to the knee, and upon medical advice, my mobility for six weeks was restricted to the bare minimum. For a further month-long period after the cast was removed, I was plagued with intense pain while walking. Through all this period, much to my discomfort, my parents would insist on washing my plate following each meal. Anna walked those extra miles each day by nursing my injured foot back to normal. He would gently massage the leg with an Ayurvedic preparation twice every day as suggested by his colleague, a practitioner of alternative therapies.

 

Anna is a soft-spoken man of few words, a principled individual of measured habits, who believes in simple living and good thinking. For these very reasons he unfailingly commands the respect of every soul that comes in contact with him.  We’ve not ever seen or known him to be overtly demonstrative of his emotions and affections. Perhaps, we’ve not even heard him utter the words love or affection, except in the context of occasionally narrating scenes from films. Yet, his eyes, gestures and actions articulate the sentiment in no mean manner, contributing totally to the proverbial, actions speak louder than words adage.  

 

As each of us, siblings left the warmth of this parental nest for foreign shores to set up our homes, amma and anna would excitedly await our annual vacation. On getting to the arrival lounge at the airport from our respective destinations in Dubai and USA, our eyes would eagerly rove the area, impatient to catch a glimpse of anna who would joyously sacrifice his sleep to receive us at all unearthly hours of the night. This ritual stopped the year anna turned 80 when he underwent a hip replacement surgery. For my sister and me, anna has been our hero, whose mere presence in our midst we believe would haul us out of any and every situation, no matter how daunting.

 

Fortunately for me, I see in JR, a mirror image of my father in the way he nurtures and cherishes our children, albeit with a major difference. Peppered with hugs and kisses, JR, unlike anna, has no reservations displaying his fondness for and devotion to our kids. As the pivotal lunar luminosity on his crown, fringed by scanty silver strands, glows brighter with the passing years, reflective of wisdom gained, anna is unwavering in showering undemanding affections. But there is a change now. As he bravely advances further in the dusky years of his life, he has become more vocal in expressing his feelings – his strong desire which actually hinges on a craving, a yearning – to have his children and grandchildren around him.

 

A deluge of thoughts overwhelm me and I blink away the salty tears from my eyes as I visualize the pair of them, their chins pressed against the gate waving to us as we depart for our own homes.  To observe them, who had hitherto seemed inexhaustible reservoirs of energy, suddenly appear so frail and fragile, is painfully heart-wrenching. I shake off these sombre reflections that threaten to engulf me. As my daughter says, truly, every day is Mother’s Day and  Father’s Day – no amount of cherishing them is enough to show our gratitude to them.  

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