Essay 15
Essay 15
Essay 15
Essay 15
Getting to know my father
Getting to know my father
Getting to know my father
Getting to know my father
17 Jan 2024
17 Jan 2024
17 Jan 2024
17 Jan 2024
5 min
5 min
5 min
5 min
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Every morning, Advaith, Ollie and I go for a walk. Whenever there is a disturbance, an errant vehicle, or an excited child running towards the dog, I will yell ‘Be careful’. After hearing far too many warnings, Advaith once quipped, “Why don’t we do this? I will now onwards always be careful unless stated otherwise.”
I laugh, realising that I am my mother. Worried all the time. After my brother had a scare in a water park, my mother decided water as a whole was unsafe. I learnt how to swim last year, the only person in my family who knows how. I was notorious for never answering calls in my 20s, resulting in a very panicked mother. Now, I start assuming the worst when a loved one doesn’t answer their calls.
Every morning, Advaith, Ollie and I go for a walk. Whenever there is a disturbance, an errant vehicle, or an excited child running towards the dog, I will yell ‘Be careful’. After hearing far too many warnings, Advaith once quipped, “Why don’t we do this? I will now onwards always be careful unless stated otherwise.”
I laugh, realising that I am my mother. Worried all the time. After my brother had a scare in a water park, my mother decided water as a whole was unsafe. I learnt how to swim last year, the only person in my family who knows how. I was notorious for never answering calls in my 20s, resulting in a very panicked mother. Now, I start assuming the worst when a loved one doesn’t answer their calls.
Every morning, Advaith, Ollie and I go for a walk. Whenever there is a disturbance, an errant vehicle, or an excited child running towards the dog, I will yell ‘Be careful’. After hearing far too many warnings, Advaith once quipped, “Why don’t we do this? I will now onwards always be careful unless stated otherwise.”
I laugh, realising that I am my mother. Worried all the time. After my brother had a scare in a water park, my mother decided water as a whole was unsafe. I learnt how to swim last year, the only person in my family who knows how. I was notorious for never answering calls in my 20s, resulting in a very panicked mother. Now, I start assuming the worst when a loved one doesn’t answer their calls.
As I inch towards thirty-one, I realise I am all biology. My health, anger, laughter and crooked index finger are all thanks to my mother. I am sure I am my father too. But I just don’t know him enough to say how.
For most of my childhood, my dad ran a Udupi (restaurant) in Mumbai. My dad’s day looked different from most people. He went to the restaurant early in the morning and then returned at 3 pm for a late lunch and a nap. After a second shower and a second round of prayers, he went back to the restaurant at 6 pm, returning after closing the restaurant at midnight. My dad had this schedule for most days, including weekends and holidays. When everyone else was on a break, my dad had to work. We never went on holiday as a family. My dad was always working.
My dad was present when he was around. Every morning, when my mother and I fought about why I had not ironed my school uniform the previous night, he would offer to do it while I had breakfast. When my mom was feeling too tired to cook, we would call our dad on the hotel landline and place our orders for dinner. On such days, he would come home early and we would eat together. He would call home on the days of my results, console me or congratulate me depending on how I had fared. He was always kind. But we were not friends.
My relationship with my dad was polite at its best and fraught at its worst. When I turned 16, I also turned mean and had biting criticism for everything my parents could do. For the things they said, for the things they didn’t do, for not having enough money, for having too many rules. I knew my mother's stories. Every day after school, my mother and I would chat over lunch, over tea, over arguments. So I could empathise with her. But never with my father. We barely spoke. He was always trying to fix everything. Never asking for help, never explaining anything, convinced that he could do it alone. I grew up never understanding him or his reasons.
Once I emerged from the righteousness of my early twenties and had worked for a few years, I felt guilty. I now knew how hard making a living was, especially for someone like him. My dad left home as a 10-year-old to earn a living for his family. Starting out as a child cleaning tables to eventually owning a restaurant of his own. By the time my father stopped working in 2018 on our request, he had been working for 57 years.
As I inch towards thirty-one, I realise I am all biology. My health, anger, laughter and crooked index finger are all thanks to my mother. I am sure I am my father too. But I just don’t know him enough to say how.
For most of my childhood, my dad ran a Udupi (restaurant) in Mumbai. My dad’s day looked different from most people. He went to the restaurant early in the morning and then returned at 3 pm for a late lunch and a nap. After a second shower and a second round of prayers, he went back to the restaurant at 6 pm, returning after closing the restaurant at midnight. My dad had this schedule for most days, including weekends and holidays. When everyone else was on a break, my dad had to work. We never went on holiday as a family. My dad was always working.
My dad was present when he was around. Every morning, when my mother and I fought about why I had not ironed my school uniform the previous night, he would offer to do it while I had breakfast. When my mom was feeling too tired to cook, we would call our dad on the hotel landline and place our orders for dinner. On such days, he would come home early and we would eat together. He would call home on the days of my results, console me or congratulate me depending on how I had fared. He was always kind. But we were not friends.
My relationship with my dad was polite at its best and fraught at its worst. When I turned 16, I also turned mean and had biting criticism for everything my parents could do. For the things they said, for the things they didn’t do, for not having enough money, for having too many rules. I knew my mother's stories. Every day after school, my mother and I would chat over lunch, over tea, over arguments. So I could empathise with her. But never with my father. We barely spoke. He was always trying to fix everything. Never asking for help, never explaining anything, convinced that he could do it alone. I grew up never understanding him or his reasons.
Once I emerged from the righteousness of my early twenties and had worked for a few years, I felt guilty. I now knew how hard making a living was, especially for someone like him. My dad left home as a 10-year-old to earn a living for his family. Starting out as a child cleaning tables to eventually owning a restaurant of his own. By the time my father stopped working in 2018 on our request, he had been working for 57 years.
As I inch towards thirty-one, I realise I am all biology. My health, anger, laughter and crooked index finger are all thanks to my mother. I am sure I am my father too. But I just don’t know him enough to say how.
For most of my childhood, my dad ran a Udupi (restaurant) in Mumbai. My dad’s day looked different from most people. He went to the restaurant early in the morning and then returned at 3 pm for a late lunch and a nap. After a second shower and a second round of prayers, he went back to the restaurant at 6 pm, returning after closing the restaurant at midnight. My dad had this schedule for most days, including weekends and holidays. When everyone else was on a break, my dad had to work. We never went on holiday as a family. My dad was always working.
My dad was present when he was around. Every morning, when my mother and I fought about why I had not ironed my school uniform the previous night, he would offer to do it while I had breakfast. When my mom was feeling too tired to cook, we would call our dad on the hotel landline and place our orders for dinner. On such days, he would come home early and we would eat together. He would call home on the days of my results, console me or congratulate me depending on how I had fared. He was always kind. But we were not friends.
My relationship with my dad was polite at its best and fraught at its worst. When I turned 16, I also turned mean and had biting criticism for everything my parents could do. For the things they said, for the things they didn’t do, for not having enough money, for having too many rules. I knew my mother's stories. Every day after school, my mother and I would chat over lunch, over tea, over arguments. So I could empathise with her. But never with my father. We barely spoke. He was always trying to fix everything. Never asking for help, never explaining anything, convinced that he could do it alone. I grew up never understanding him or his reasons.
Once I emerged from the righteousness of my early twenties and had worked for a few years, I felt guilty. I now knew how hard making a living was, especially for someone like him. My dad left home as a 10-year-old to earn a living for his family. Starting out as a child cleaning tables to eventually owning a restaurant of his own. By the time my father stopped working in 2018 on our request, he had been working for 57 years.
As I inch towards thirty-one, I realise I am all biology. My health, anger, laughter and crooked index finger are all thanks to my mother. I am sure I am my father too. But I just don’t know him enough to say how.
For most of my childhood, my dad ran a Udupi (restaurant) in Mumbai. My dad’s day looked different from most people. He went to the restaurant early in the morning and then returned at 3 pm for a late lunch and a nap. After a second shower and a second round of prayers, he went back to the restaurant at 6 pm, returning after closing the restaurant at midnight. My dad had this schedule for most days, including weekends and holidays. When everyone else was on a break, my dad had to work. We never went on holiday as a family. My dad was always working.
My dad was present when he was around. Every morning, when my mother and I fought about why I had not ironed my school uniform the previous night, he would offer to do it while I had breakfast. When my mom was feeling too tired to cook, we would call our dad on the hotel landline and place our orders for dinner. On such days, he would come home early and we would eat together. He would call home on the days of my results, console me or congratulate me depending on how I had fared. He was always kind. But we were not friends.
My relationship with my dad was polite at its best and fraught at its worst. When I turned 16, I also turned mean and had biting criticism for everything my parents could do. For the things they said, for the things they didn’t do, for not having enough money, for having too many rules. I knew my mother's stories. Every day after school, my mother and I would chat over lunch, over tea, over arguments. So I could empathise with her. But never with my father. We barely spoke. He was always trying to fix everything. Never asking for help, never explaining anything, convinced that he could do it alone. I grew up never understanding him or his reasons.
Once I emerged from the righteousness of my early twenties and had worked for a few years, I felt guilty. I now knew how hard making a living was, especially for someone like him. My dad left home as a 10-year-old to earn a living for his family. Starting out as a child cleaning tables to eventually owning a restaurant of his own. By the time my father stopped working in 2018 on our request, he had been working for 57 years.
When talking to new people, I try to be attentive, responding to every new fact with a question, giving them time knowing that you can never know somebody that quickly. While talking to my dad, I don’t know how to make conversation. For most of my life, I have spoken to my mother. Telling her everything, dreading her judgement and wrath, but knowing that she will find out eventually. And if needed, she will tell my father.
When I decided to take time off from work last year, somebody asked me what I would do with my time? I, as if on instinct, said, “I want to write a book on my father.” I know my dad’s life had adventures. I thought writing a book would give me an excuse, a veil to know him better. An apology for all the times I didn’t appreciate him. A peek into his humanity that as a child I ignored. Was he scared when he was sent to Bombay alone at 10? Did he hate his parents? How was Bombay then? What movies did he watch? How did he feel when my brothers were born? How did he feel when I was?
The last time I visited Mangalore, I told him that I wanted to know his stories so I could write a book about him. He laughed, thinking I was pulling his leg. I compensated for my teenage unkindness by assuring him that he had pulled off a miracle - building his way up while looking after his parents and educating three children In Mumbai. He smiled and said, “I won’t say too much or your mom will say I have had too many drinks.”
I haven’t made much progress on the book. We are still figuring out the time and space to talk, delayed 30 years.
I haven’t made much progress on the book. We are still figuring out the time and space to talk, delayed 30 years.
I haven’t made much progress on the book. We are still figuring out the time and space to talk, delayed 30 years.
I haven’t made much progress on the book. We are still figuring out the time and space to talk, delayed 30 years.
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It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
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Get a mail everytime a post goes up.
It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
Design/dev by @itsiddharth
Get a mail everytime a post goes up.
It will be a reminder to stop scrolling and read something fun.
FEEL FREE TO REACH OUT IF YOU HAVE ANY THOUGHTS OR JUST WANT TO SAY HI.
Design/dev by @itsiddharth