I actually started writing this post on my father's birthday (Sept 7), but I just got around to posting it (Sept 10)!


I read because of him. I write because of him. I laugh, love, and sometimes even cry because of him. Anytime I feel alone or afraid, I close my eyes and think about my Dad in his 40s. Tall, broad and strong. My protector, my provider, my caregiver, my friend, the one person who indulged me.

I was quite a sickly baby and I used to be up most nights, crying and screaming. My mother had no patience and would yell at me to shut up and then when that didn't work she would hit me. Obviously, I cried even louder! So my dad would carry me in his arms and pace the room, until I fell asleep. That sort of became my comfort and safety ritual. It continued well past my toddler stage even! For me, being carried by Dad meant a lot more than just freedom from walking. So right until the time I went to boarding school (which was at the age of 9), I would want to be carried by Dad every single day.

He would wake up early to get to work and while he was getting ready, my eyes would open too. So I would ask him to carry me and walk up and down for at least 10-15 minutes before he left for work. Poor Dad would do it too, right in the middle of shaving or dressing up! He had no choice because I would cry out, "Daddy, carry me..." continuously till he did! He deserves a medal just for that.

I started school when I was 4 and a half. I was too used to being at home till then, I hated leaving my comfort zone and going to a noisy, crowded and sometimes smelly classroom. I cried every single day for an entire month. And every single day my dad had to take me to school because I refused to go with anyone else. After weeks of drama, I finally agreed to go with an old lady who used to drop all the neighbourhood kids to school for a small fee. I promised I would be good and walk with her, but the minute my Dad was out of sight I freed my hand from her grip and started running back. I didn't get too far because Dad was hiding around the corner waiting for me! He knew me too well. He said he would wait back there every day until I went to school. So finally, I went!

I started reading very early thanks to my older brother. I would grab the Asterix comics and ask him to explain what the pictures meant. He thought it was better if I learned to read myself so that I would leave him alone. Perfect! Then he slowly started me on the other comics - Phantom, Amar Chitra Katha, Tin Tin, Lucky Luke etc. When I started on the Enid Blytons, Dad would get us loads of books to read. Either from the lending library or the second-hand bookshop. Those were the days before Landmark and Crossword. At night when Mom would put the lights out and warn us not to read in bed, Dad would sneak in a torch and tell us to have a blast.

My mother, for reasons best known to her, did not even like us believing in Santa Claus. So Dad would buy our gifts in advance and hide them in the neighbour's house till Christmas morning. Later, when it was just the three of us he would hide them at home. I always found them in advance (yes I was a born snoop!) but wouldn't let Dad know. On Christmas morning, I would act all suprised and jump around excitedly. "But Daddy, how does Santa know that I can play badminton now?" The look on his face was priceless. By the way, we never wrote any letters to ol' Santa @The North Pole but we always got what we wanted.

At boarding school we had to write letters home every week. I was one of the few kids who had to write two letters every week (one to Dad and one to Mom, as she was away on work). My letters to Mom were very standard and boring, I think I wrote the exact same letter every week for 6 years :-) Writing to Dad was more fun, for one thing I was not writing only to him. My brother and Granny were also at home, so I had a lot of stories to tell them all. And then of course, there was Dad... to whom I would tell everything. I used to even write about which books I was reading and the stories in those books. My Dad saved all my letters, from the time I was 9 till I was 15. I remember finding them in a big brown paper bag one day and I was quite amused. But I never got around to reading them because my mother tore them all up, again for reasons best known to her!

During my vacations from boarding school, Dad always made sure I was never bored. He'd get me loads of books and movies. When I was younger, he'd take me out to movies or to the zoo, aquarium, circus or round up my cousins and friends and take us all on a picnic. Once I hit the teens, of course, like any self-respecting teenager I didn't want to hang out with my family, so Dad would give me enough money to go out with my friends. Sometimes he would even book movie tickets for all of us.

When I started college, Dad let me study what I wanted. As long as I got good grades and enjoyed what I was doing, he didn't mind. Only thing, he didn't like me working part-time while studying. So apart from tutoring little kids for a while, I didn't start working until I had graduated.

Even when I had started working Dad always supported me. My brother as well. He let us do the jobs we wanted and never interfered as long as we liked what we were doing. We still lived at home and since Dad had retired by then, he would cook for us. A year later our mother was back and things started to change. But Dad was always there for us. To this day, he loves running errands for my brother and me. We don't let him of course, but he's always asking if he can do something.

Throughout my life I have never seen my Dad buy anything for himself. Not one single thing. Earlier my Mom would buy him clothes, shoes etc, and these days my brother and I do it. Much against his wishes because he always claims that he has too much stuff. But he loves the things we give him. Around 13 years ago my brother and I gave him a watch for his birthday, he wears it to this day. We've given him other watches after that, other people have given him watches, but he still wears only that one. Every couple of years he changes the leather strap and then continues wearing the watch. I think it reminds him of the time my brother and I had just started working and we all lived together at home.

Dad still remembers the compliments and nice things that people have said to me over the years. Even if he never heard them himself but only through me, he still remembers! Something that someone said to me 15 or 20 years back, and I repeated to my Dad, he reminds me about even now. I've forgotten these things but hearing Dad saying them again is so reassuring. Not only is he proud of me, he also tries to keep me motivated.

Today is his 73rd birthday and even though we've celebrated better times before, it's still special. Even with all the disappointments and upheavals of the recent past, what matters is that we're together. I remember some years back when I was living in a different city and I missed so many of my Dad's birthdays. It used to make me so sad. I'm just happy that now we're always together. It was last year on Dad's birthday that I had started baking, and this year too I made him a cake which he absolutely loved. It was a moist chocolate cake with Cointreau and fudge icing. After dinner when I cut him a nice big slice, he took a large bite and then asked, "What inspires you to bake like this?" It was the best compliment I've received and I just said, "You Dad, you inspire me. Always."

I could go on endlessly about my father and what he means to me. If I had to write a book about my life, I can safely say that he would feature in it more than anyone else. He's always been the most important person in my world and with each passing year we get closer. I can talk to my Dad about anything and there are things that he will say only to me.

I'm not religious but I understand why people who pray think of god as a father. God as a wise old man who knows everything and sees everything and is always around to pick us up when we fall. Someone who protects us and loves us no matter what. Even when nobody else loves us, and especially on days we don't even love ourselves. Nothing is as comforting as that thought. The idea that someone like my dad takes care of the world, could turn even a non-believer like me.

To me, god is my father and my father is god. That's the way it will always be.