I still remember an incident when I had got down from a train to look out for my Dad who had gone out to buy some fruits, My Mom was there sitting on her seat and I had constantly consoled myself that Dad would be back before the train whistles.
But my fear had surpassed my gentle tone and my impulse or my “love” gave me hard push out of the train, it was a crowded station but my fears were in oblivion because my desires to look out for him was more severe. There I was holding his hands and returning back as a mother would do to a child.
And then there were so many instances where effortlessly I had been a mother to my Dad, he had been a father to me. Holding my hands when I was breathing out of breathe and could not walk anymore, he had taken me on his lap and soothed my pain. Cooking that perfect meal for me when I felt all alone and sick, he had just made the dish as I had longed for after my hard day at college.
I had bought those little bottles of that insipid solution to heal his wound when he was feeling relentless pain while sleeping. He had been all in pain but being a male he could not shed that droplet as we say “Do men cry?” He still believed in that old wisdom.
There were incessant rounds of my point of view and his and we both offered extreme views, at the end it sparked controversies, kindled arguments, stirred our beliefs, provoked our ideals drifting us apart and me Saying “Dad, you just don’t try to understand my view point” and he “Do you think you do, just grow up and you will realize.” and then there would be silence, it would be better without words that day. Just that familiar murmuring tone and my fingers pressing those numbers, saying “Dad really belongs to that old generation, he needs to change, I am not talking to him.” What were friends for?
The next day would be just another normal day. But my impulse kept me pushing towards him, my lips desired to tell him “Sorry Dad, I hurt you with my frenzy or sane views.” He would be in his silent mode but his mind battling with thousand words just that he could not utter them, I would jump with my emotions saying Dad “How was your day?” Did he allow me to complete my sentence? He was all in his usual self saying “How was yours? You said you wanted to eat Chinese, I made it after I came back from office, and it looks yummy.” Did I care about those viewpoints or my ideals anymore. That feeling was beyond words.
I and my Dad shared that weird bond, we smiled every time we quarrelled every bit, we argued every moment, we spoke of our values in different tones, we spoke of conflicting ideals, and we debated on paradoxical beliefs. But the two of us smiled at our differences, laughed at our errors, cried at our insanity and then made up for each other.
My Dad and I shared this abstruse relationship filled with perplexities, unfathomable but that’s the way we lived.
Today I am so far away from him, he is all in his little world of ideals, principles, values and ethics but I don’t argue with him. I just listen to him, understanding the value of words and being all ears when he craves for that little affirmation saying “hmm, yes, yups, I am listening Dad, you can talk to me, I yearn to listen to your words whatever, wherever.” And he says “I long to speak to you, don’t mind being corrected, being rebuked, being scolded. I cherish to hear, to be heard.
Ronita-Maitra Bhandari is a freelance creative writer who writes for various sites and blogs. She has also done a certified course in “Positive Parenting” from U.K. She is a mom to a 7-year-old and loves nurturing her greatest resource, her daughter. Apart from writing she is a nature lover and gets energised wandering around green patches. She believes family is a treasure chest and children are those precious jewels in the chest who sparkle to illuminate lives. What else would one desire to live a rich life?