Who would you like to talk to soon?
Dadas are truly a silent lot. You see them often, but you rarely hear them. I’ve seen them at soccer matches, football matches, athletic meets, sports day events, award ceremonies, and even at random special mentoring sessions. My Dad was no different. He used to stand on his bike parked outside the gym silently watching us perform. He did not want to disturb and he never understood when we told him what we had learned in class, but he was eager to see what we had learned. On one such Thursday evening, we heard a crash from inside. Dad was parked as usual on the curb, peeking in, still on the bike but idling with the engine on to make for a quick getaway if he felt we were distracted. That’s when a bus passing by, swerved and touched his bike. The crash was the bike hitting the tree in the corner. Dad landed some distance away. It was a miracle he had not hit the tree. Thursday was our Vaulting day and the crash brought us all rushing to the gates. Coach, quickly had me sent away on an errand and no one mentioned anything. But I was curious, so when Coach was distracted, I peeked outside and saw the bike. I could recognize the bike number and knew it was Dad. I knew that an ambulance had taken away the rider, I did not know how badly he was injured. That day, all of us were distracted with everyone conjecturing about what may have happened outside the gates. Until I saw the bike, I had been part of that conversation, but the moment I figured it was Dad, I made an excuse to share water with my younger sibling and during the water break, told her, after warning her to act normal. Both of us were worried and had no clue how to find out how badly Dad was injured. This incident occurred when landlines were the quickest mode of communication and none of us knew Mum’s work timings as she worked in the court. To date, I have no clue how Mum found out but later that evening, she was there at the Gym to pick us up and although we had not yet completed our exercise, we were excused for the evening. When she saw our faces, she knew we were aware, so she just told us what had happened and that Dad was at home in bed, with injuries on his face.
Nothing prepared us for the vision in bed later that evening. Dad’s face was puffed up, the injuries were superficial but the swelling made it look a lot worse than it was. Curious about what he was doing outside the gates, we asked him and found out that he had just stopped to see what we were up to. He missed us at home and had dropped by to see if everything was ok. His worry had got him injured.
There were a lot of instances when we used to miss running into Dad, either because he was waiting and we were in a hurry or because he was running late. As kids and teenagers, we were always in a hurry to grow up and get on with our lives. He was constantly sitting on the sidelines waiting to catch up and often just happy to have spotted us in the crowd. Dad always got home earlier than Mum and would ensure that we had our meals mixed and at times even fed us our meals when we were too exhausted to make the effort. From the hot milk topped with foam the way I liked it as a kid to the hot coffee topped with foam, the way I preferred it as a teenager, it was the little things he did that made a big difference. I never acknowledged it. I never thanked him for it. And until he was gone, I never missed it.
I had already spent a year in the apartment when Dad first dropped in for a week-long visit. That was the first time I got details about the person delivering the milk and the newspaperman. Dad used to initiate conversations with the security guards, the delivery boys, and the maintenance people. At home, he used to have conversations with the night watchman who would walk the streets. He knew their routes, their timings, and their stories. When I hired a cook, Dad spent enough time with her to teach her to make a few dishes the way he knew I liked it.
Post-marriage, I made a habit of dropping in for dinner at Mum’s on random evenings. When we left work, if we had nothing else planned, then we always just headed home for dinner. On one such visit, Dad decided to return with us to spend the weekend at our place. He wouldn’t accept it, but he knew he would get to watch the full match at my place and would not have to adjust to Mum’s weekend TV time. Usually, we had a little more time to make these plans and would keep Dad’s water bottle ready when he dropped in. This time, we returned late after dinner at Mum’s and all of us were exhausted, so we just crashed out. Usually, Dad took a bottle of water to bed with him, but that night, we forgot. So, later that night, Dad walked out for some water, and not wanting to disturb us, he used the ambient light filtering in through the window and found a bottle near the stove. Without checking it, he glugged first and when he paused for a breath, is when he realized that it did not taste like water. Curious, he switched on the light, to find that he had finished my monthly ration of cooking oil thinking it was water. Chuckling to himself, he went back to bed, after picking up a bottle of drinking water kept near the water filter. The following morning, he had the most hilarious story to tell us.
On another visit, he stepped out of the room, to head to the kitchen to refill his water bottle, when he discovered that we had a roach infestation on the shelves where the Gas cylinders were stacked. He spent the rest of the night spraying the anti-roach spray and killing any that came flying out. He picked up the mats and cleaning cloths placed around the house and blocked the space under my room door, so none of them would crawl into my room and single-handedly killed them all. The following morning I walked out to a carpet of roaches and the craziest story ever. Of course, I called pest control and Dad first negotiated the annual package for me and then he supervised them while he gathered more information from them as they finished their work.
Every story and every visit we discovered another layer to Dad. Growing up we had been busy with our gymnastics classes to have time to sit for a conversation. But these visits were precious to me, I liked having him around and I enjoyed having conversations with him. If I had a chance to talk to someone soon, it would be with Dad. 18 years ago, he told me that he would be spending Christmas with me. The kid had just turned 6 months old and I was looking forward to another visit and a new crazy story to share with the family. The evening before he was to arrive, he passed away at home. I never got to spend that time with him. I never got to ask him for any new stories he remembered from when I was six months old. Or to even ask him for tips for being a good parent. Today, I would love to just sit in silence with him and watch as he interacts and enjoys a few conversations with his grandkids. or even just makes his amazing filter coffee for them, so they know what I keep raving about every time I make coffee.
Hi dad! Let’s talk!
Just a little more 