Father's Day

Since today is Father's Day, I got to thinking about fathers. They say that every little girl's first ever hero is their father. In my case, I didn't really get to see mine much when I was growing up. My dad worked in the Middle East when I was a kid and I got to see him for about a month or so twice a year. I remember I used to have one of these huge zip-up plastic closet things. Basically, it was a closet which you could zip up. I remember hiding in it when my dad finally got back from where ever hot sandy place he was and he used to always search for me, saying 'Where's my girl? Where is my baby?' I used to be so thrilled when he finally ‘found’ me, and then follow him around like a puppy the rest of the time he was here. I also remember camping out in my uncles car when it came time for my dad to leave again, resolutely stating that either he stay with me or take me with him. I always fell asleep and he would be gone when I woke up. Always. One of the happiest memories I have of my father is the day he finally left the sand dunes and came back home for good and I got to show him my new brother. He brought me grapes. Of two colours. And Pepsi, Mirinda and Sprite in cans. And he told me he'd never leave again. I was happier than I can ever remember.

My dad isn't into large outward shows of emotion. He’s usually quite gruff and loud and yells at absolutely EVERYONE. Me, my mom, the dogs, the people he works with, random people on the street, basically, Everyone. That’s just the way he is. He yells. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us. He does. With everything that he is. Coming back to the whole hero thing. My dad is my hero because he broke the windscreen of our old Volkswagen with his bare fist to get us out when we met with an accident and the car flipped over. I know he did it. I saw him do it. Not many people can say their dad crawled over broken glass to make sure that they were o.k. That’s the day that I knew that no matter how gruff and anti-hug my dad is, he loves us more than he loves himself.

The first time I saw my father cry was in India. When he was faced with the prospect of having to leave me by myself far away from where he could keep an eye on me. I was bawling my head off, and he didn't bawl with me. Not really. No big emotional displays from him. But his eyes filled with tears and he told me, stick it out for a year. And if I hated it, I could come home. Money be damned. I stayed all three years. Got my degree too. All the while, I had him at the back of my mind saying, 'come home if you hate it. Money be damned' he worked all his life for the money he spent on my uni. But he said 'come home. Money be damned' he loves me that much.

The second time he cried, he was in pain. He had a kidney stone and it hurt him very, very badly. That’s the day that I found out that even heroes are not invincible. And that even heroes hurt sometimes. And it got me thinking about how much hurt he must have gone through, those years in the sandy desert without us, when he got all those stitches on his arm after he punched through the car windscreen, when he saw the people he loved leave him and pass on. He never showed it. Not a glimmer of pain. He was always our superman. Bullet-proof and made of tougher stuff than Adamantium. The person we could run to with the absolute belief that he would always, always protect us.

So thank you father, dad, thaththa. You have been all of those things and as cliché as this sounds, you have always been my superman (but with less mild manners and more yelling). We were born on the same date. So as amma says, I am your living breathing birthday present. But she forgets to mention that I too have a living breathing birthday present. Someone who has loved me and watched over me since the day I was born, someone who I can always count on, You. What more can a girl ask for?