Dearest Papa,
I don’t remember any particular day called ‘Father’s Day’ when we were little. I doubt if you’d heard of it even years after losing your father at the age of 9. And I’m not surprised that my kids don’t send me mushy texts about how nice I am, not just on this, but any day of the year.
The thing I do remember fondly, was getting and writing letters, when you were in England and we were growing up. Well, to be true I do remember a good deal of other things as well (see below), but I don’t know why, letters written in long-hand remain fresh and readily spring to mind today.
Maybe I’ve said this more than once during our many confrontations, and doubtless you’ve heard this from a whole lot of other people, starting with your own wife, but I don’t agree with how you lived your life.
For instance, why the hell did you have to be so, so different? Why did you decide to become an actor when it was hardly classified as a valid profession? Why did you have to join the National School of Drama and shine on the Delhi stage when others were writing their college exams? Why did you make it a point to be in every radio play on AIR, or for that matter, Doordarshan, when they decided to start broadcasting? Why did you have to follow your star and choose to specialize in Child Drama overseas, leaving your family behind, when other dads were busy with their humdrum jobs, setting up homes for their flock?
Why did you not think twice before breaking away from your family, even if that meant taking on odd jobs to support your family? Why did you insist on marrying early on in life and then shaping your wife into a confident lady who could take on life’s many twists even when you weren’t around? Why did you continue thinking about everyone else—your mother, brothers, cousins—when you should’ve only been thinking about your wife and sons?
Why did you send your children to the best educational institutions when you could ill-afford the expenses? Why couldn’t you’ve been like other dads, telling your sons what to do, instead of letting them figure out what they wanted to do, every step of the way? Why couldn’t you have acted more like an authority figure and less of a friend when I asked you about my choice of career? Why the hell couldn’t you’ve stayed on a bit to enjoy the creature comforts you knew your boys would eventually lay out for you? Most of all, why didn’t you give your grandchildren the chance to experience what they rightfully deserved—your warmth and love?
Yet, as I look back on my life with you, a myriad memories flash before my eyes—small things, but stuff life is made up of. And on this day, I thank God that I was born to a maverick, someone who was way, way ahead of his times. I remember, for instance:
1. Nestling in your arms as a kid, soaking in the smell of your after-shave, knowing smugly that I would be able to wear it too, one day.
2. The way you would put on your socks and shoes before venturing out, marveling at how perfectly the heels fell into place, and how quickly you tied those laces.
3. How you took me to Khan Market after my tonsils operation, to feed me unlimited ice-cream in a fancy restaurant.
4. Sipping a bit of beer from your glass, falling for the argument that a bit of beer is good for the body, and not knowing that taste would stay with me for life.
5. When you took me by the hand, walking out of the hospital you were admitted to, without telling anyone, to go and perform in Habib Tanvir’s play, not wanting a small detail like your asthma come in the way of the show.
6. Rationing out cigarettes to you every day, one after every meal, knowing that they would kill you eventually, but realizing deep inside that, what the hell, enjoyment came in measured puffs anyway.
7. Your striking good looks and how you’d tease Mama about how many women would lust after you when you were young.
8. Modeling my hair-style after yours, brushed straight back, without a parting.
9. The last wave of your hand, burdened by my grand-dad’s heavy overcoat as you left us at the airport on your first trip abroad, and crying on looking at your chappals, when we reached home.
10. Relishing every word that you’d hurriedly write to us on those rice-paper sheets, after we’d removed the stamps with the Queen’s mug from the envelopes for our collection.
11. Trying to cram anecdotes and affections into every bit of the aerogrammes we’d reply on, not leaving even the margins or the fold-overs.
12. Waiting for the phone to ring every time on our birthdays, armed with a list of what we needed from England, in this instance, a ‘Get Ready’ LP by Rare Earth.
13. Watching you from the visitor’s gallery at the airport when you returned, every bit my hero in a smart jacket and sunglasses.
14. Accompanying you and Mama to the temple after you’d won a legal case, not suspecting that the avowed atheist had a traditional heart after all.
15. Dropping you at the airport proudly when you were off to location, shooting ‘Shivaji’ with Parikshit Sahni, or ‘Hum Paanch’ with a then very young and raw Anil Kapoor.
16. Arguing with you why an MBA and a career in the private sector made more sense than one with the Civil Services.
17. Trying on your tasteful collection of shirts, ties and suits, when it was time for me to start working in an MNC.
18. How you travelled 500+ km on a Maharashtra Roadways bus to the deep interiors of the state where I was undergoing ‘Management training’ while with Brooke Bond, just to tell me that I had cleared the Civil Services Prelims, only to be told that I had made my choice.
19. How I made you and Mama travel with me all the way from Bombay to Ajmer to marry the girl I’d chosen, having to consent without your even talking to her parents.
20. Predicting the media explosion and how it would alter the world we live in, at least a decade before it started happening.
21. Picking up Saattvic from school in Juhu, after he’d injured himself, knowing that it would take too long for me to come back from Worli.
22. You rushing to Delhi on your brother’s passing away, never to return yourself.
23. Seeing you in Moolchand Hospital, your usual cheery self, like so many times in hospital before, never suspecting that your time was up.
24. Watching you take the last few breaths bravely, helplessly standing by, waiting for a miracle to happen.
25. Carrying you to the Electric Crematorium and watching as you disappeared inside, feeling quite like the first time at Delhi airport.
26. Standing next to the bubbling Bhagirathi at Badrinath, holding Mama, my wife and brother, praying for you, probably the last time as a family.
27. Storing your specs, smoking pipe, wallet and inhaler in your room just as you’d left them, for years afterward.
28. Occasionally glancing up from my bed to your picture, knowing that you’re watching over me, always.
I sense you’re not quite happy at the way your boys’ve turned out—after all, we didn’t quite take up the choices you’d wanted us to, without really making it clear. But don’t worry, you’ll get your chance at another confrontation. Good thing is, you won’t have to wait too long before we meet again. But let me assure you, when we do, despite the outcome of that confrontation, I’ll sit back and gladly let you bring up my kids, for I know you’d do a darned good job of it—certainly better than I could ever manage.
Looking forward to seeing you, again…
P.S. Post my writing this letter, I've been wished Happy Father's Day by each of my boys today (though of course, these days they use mobile phones not letters), making me think that their upbringing hasn't been too bad either. This means we'll have real notes exchange when we meet! So, prepare!!
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