This is for you, Papa

Originally written on November 30, 2005

Papa.

The word evokes a series of emotions: super- strong, wordlessly reassuring, sometimes angry, silently indulgent, ferrying-us-to-school, always there and so mellow.

Papa, with his booming big voice, who would always get handfuls of coloured bead necklaces whenever he went touring, who could carry bags of film spools and vegetables with equal élan; Papa, who could shoulder a VHS camera and the payment of utility bills with equal ease.

Papa, who has aged so gracefully in the recent years that he makes my family proud of him.

I remember when I was little, Papa would be the center of every wedding procession, dancing and laughing and coaxing all his sisters-in-law to dance. At the marriage of my mother's cousin, he had managed the entire kitchen and stores, sleeping arrangements, liquor reserves and had yet found time to enjoy himself wholeheartedly in the event, swollen feet (from working too much) notwithstanding, making him quite equivalent to Superman in my eyes.

Papa- who had the most mercurial temper of all- making it rise to the height of slapping an errant auto rickshaw driver, and then calmly get behind the wheel and ask us where we would like to dine that evening.

My sister and I would run to him for solace from mom, when she didn’t allow us to go for that much-envied birthday party, or perhaps refused us the nth Bon Jovi album. He would give in to our requests even before we verbalized them- making my sister quite something of a cross between a princess and a snob.

Papa- who gave me a whole house when I got married- and purchased the most outrageously expensive wedding lehenga without batting an eyelid, because he had meticulously saved for this day, investing all little pieces of savings in long term deposits and bonds all through his life, while he and my mom made those Diwali outfits last a little longer.

Papa- known for putting his whole into any job-and motivating his team to the extent that they would readily lay down their lives for him. We are still visited by his unofficial protégés whose lives have been made successes by my father. And yet, he doesn’t take credit for anything, only happy in the feeling that he’s made a difference to someone, often leading us to exclaim that he should charge consulting fee by the hour.

Papa- who is as happy with a hundred rupee gifted cologne, as a fifteen hundred rupee quilted jacket- because we have bought him that- and he’s content in the knowledge that his daughters care for him and love him.

Papa- who has always encouraged both his daughters to pursue their careers of choice, often calling us ‘better than sons’ and comparing us to diamonds he’s helped to create.

Papa- who is always laughing and smiling, even when his blood pressure is rising and he’s a little fatigued at the end of the day.

Papa- who is the most down-to-earth and upright person I’ve seen, content with his moongi daal and the occasional sarson ka saag-makki ki roti (I still remember the glee on his face when I served him his favourite at lohri this year), who has battled gall bladder stones and three stitches on his head without uttering even a single sigh of pain, who has been constantly by my mother’s side- fretting over her, teasing her, making her laugh- while striving to make her life (and ours) better all the time.

Papa- whose mercurial anger has melted into infinite caring, whose loud laugh has metamorphosed into an omnipresent smile and whose driving zeal to change the world- and the system has transformed into serving the society by doing little acts of charity.

Papa- who always gets a little misty eyed whenever I return to my own home, and who always wants to buy me everything I already have.

This is for you, papa- you are my hero, no matter what I say or do. I wouldn’t be half the person I am without you.