my father, my god
a belated father's day present to the one who won't ever receive it
When I was a toddler, my father, my Appa, held a monopoly over me.
“Ulysses kadhai, Ulysses kadhai,” I would cry, asking to be told the tale of Ulysses for the hundredth time.
So it would begin: there was a horrible one-eyed monster named Ulysses who would wreak havoc and a hero would arrive in time to kill him.
Today, I can tell him that the one-eyed monster is called a cyclops and his name is actually Polyphemus. Ulysses is the hero who drives a spear through the single eye, thereby slaying him. All Appa can do is shrug and repeat that I would cling to him in return for the story. Now, he is the one who needs the story and I am the one he comes to.
To me, my father is a religion, another god in the long list of those I worship. Perhaps, he is the closest one to me. Whether that makes him the dearest one, I know not. He is the one who hand-built my world, and he encompasses all of it. I cannot see anything beyond his shoulders. Every book I have read has been brought by him. Every principle of mine has been adopted from him. Every thought of mine is shaped by him. I am born from him, therefore I am him.
I am the devotee and I am at the whim of my god.
When he snaps at me, I am forced to cry and mope for the rest of the day. When my god decides to be merciful, we laugh together and repeat each other’s jokes from days ago, words that only we remember. He is my puppeteer, the one who decides how I feel and how our relationship is. I have no say in the matter, but to bow my head like the sacrificial goat. I live in his shadow, and am more him than I am me. My mother tells me he has programmed me in a way that only I understand his words and find meaning in it—and I am proud to be so beloved to him that his language has become mine.
my father, my god
But like all followers, my time for rebellion comes. How could he have beat me when I was little, leaving only the remnants to my memory? How could he have told me I was adopted at the mere age of five, for his own amusement? I accuse him of hurting me intentionally. He does not have my well-being at heart, I think. He cannot be trusted when his anger rules him, I insist. He does not question me. I am allowed to scream and blame him and hate him, because there is the awareness that we will always remain the same distance away from each other and neither can step away. He texted me once:
Hi Paapa,
At times I acted in ways you didn't like it. On many occasions I did it without caring how you feel about it. I anyway did it for you based on my personal experiences which you may not understand.It'll end now and if I do it may be due to habit.. but honestly doesn't mean anything.. But I'm here for anything.. you can claim your success and blame me for the fall and I accept it. Show me what we got.
But how do I tell him it is the other way around? My success is his and the fall is mine. There is no other way it has ever been. How can I blame the one who has given me everything, for what I do not have? I cannot speak up to the only god who cannot read my mind.
We exist in different times: I with tears in my bedroom, he with his sleep-deprived mind on the couch. In our loneliness, we each reach out only to be left unheard. I dismiss his texts as a drunk man’s thoughts and he will never read everything I have ever penned for him.
I blame him for my mother's tears and pain, when she says he doesn't defend her against his family. It is his fault for not helping around the house when she works and manages the household, until she collapses from fatigue. Who told him to let his anger hold him captive by the neck until he too is a victim to it?
But I forget, it is easier to hate yourself than anything else.
And I forget, have I ever seen my father cry?
My father, the first giant I ever saw.
When did you lose your hair? When did your fingers grow fat with age? When did you stop carrying me? When did I stop hugging you? When did I become separate from you?
In the end, despite all my resistance, I must still come to your altar and kiss the ground of your feet. It is who I was, who I am, and who I will be. There is nothing that can change that, not any act of yours nor mine.
What a pity
What a relief
You told me to wait until the day I am 46, the same age you are. That is when I will understand, you say, so as your obedient servant I will wait patiently.
Did you know we are more alike than we are different?
I don't mean the obvious: the same tiny eyes and round face.
My mother's father died when I was 16 and your mother's father died when you were 16.
Your paternal grandmother would wake up in the middle of every night when I would cry, and would hold me in her shaky hands that couldn't bear to lift me. And now, I look like her, says everyone. I look like the one who you would tease and whose cheeks you would pinch, and you tease and pinch my cheeks.
Am I your mirror?
I hope not, because I want to give you everything you couldn't take for yourself.
While it is Lord Krishna we pray to, it is Kanhaiyya who is dearer to the heart.
I want to hear about Kaveri, your first friend.
I want to know what it felt like when your little brother first came home from the hospital.
I want to watch you play cricket, running under the sun everyday.
I want to know if you felt jealous that your brother went to the same school as your mother when she worked, while you didn't.
I want to know if your heart broke every time your father moved you from village to village.
I want to know if you truly were an expert at mimicry, so much so that you became famous in your school for it.
I want to know if you wiped your tears away and clenched your jaw when you came home to find out your father sold your motorcycle.
I want to see the six fingers on each of your hands, before you wrapped your mother’s hair around them and they had to be amputated.
I want to hug you every time your father's belt kissed your skin.
I want to see you at your wedding, bending to whisper a stupid joke to your bride.
I want to know Raju, when that was the only name you answered to, the little boy who was there before everything.
