I watched Rajinikanth’s Kabali yesterday. Although, I personally do not like gangster stories I made an exception for the Superstar. I did not like the movie that much, but I do not regret making the exception. It was awesome to watch Rajini showcase his acting talents in this role. Punch dialogs and style aside, Rajini is inherently a great actor and you can see that clearly see that in this movie. Watching him in the role of an elderly father and husband was so authentic that it reminded me of my father and my recent time with him.
My dad visited me for four weeks this summer. It was the first real vacation he has had in years and I have never seen him relax as much as he did this time. I was so sad when it was time for him to go back to India that I spent the entire day with a big knot in my stomach. Before he left, he hugged me and told me that he had had a great time and made me promise to visit him next summer with my kids.
I don’t remember the last time my father hugged me. It must have been in my childhood. I have vague recollections of spending fun times with him when I was a really young child (less than seven years old). I remember being encouraged to call my parents “mummy” and “daddy” when I first started learning English. Over the years, I dropped “mummy” and called her “Amma” but daddy was always daddy – to this day.
When I was about eight years old, daddy quit his job to start up his own firm. Over the next ten years, I barely saw him. He’d come home from work after I went to bed and I would just see him for a few minutes in the morning. As a teenager, I hated that I never saw him. The teenage hormones robbed me of common sense and understanding like it does in all teenagers. All I could see was that he wasn’t there for me. He wasn’t physically or even verbally demonstrative of his affection. I resented him because I believed that money (that he was working so hard to earn) was more important to him than his daughter. My mother filled the emotional void and I grew up with her as my best friend.
Even in adulthood, my brother and I were always in the dark about his feelings towards us. Most of our interactions with him were through my mother. I came to re-evaluate my opinions about him only around the time of my marriage. I was taken aback by his attitude towards my interracial, inter-religious marriage. I am sure he had all kinds of dreams about my wedding, but he set all that aside and embraced my decision without reservations. It was a turning point in our relationship. Soon after that, I became a parent and gained a whole new understanding of parenthood and its challenges. Finally, I was able to put myself in his shoes and understand his actions. Suddenly, I was aware of the things that he had taught me even during those years when I thought he was absent. I recalled little moments here and there when he had told me things that had made an impression on me and molded me to be the person that I am today. I realized that the few memories that I had of him when I was growing up are some of my most favorite memories in all.
I can trace so many of my characteristics back to him. One of the first things he taught me was that everyone is a person and deserves to be treated as such, whether they sweep the floor or own the house. He told me to always ask people for their names, remember it and always address them by their names. So, I know the names of my neighborhood dhoti, the young lad who delivers tea to my dad’s office, my mother’s doctor’s assistant, the errand boy at the pharmacy, the watchman at the flat next door to my parents, the lady who cleans the bathrooms in their building and many such others. I love to see their smile when they realize that I know and remember their name. It breaks down barriers and makes it easier to get to know them. I know that the watchman next door is from Nepal and that he works in Chennai and sends money home for his sister’s marriage. I know how and why the tea lady at the office I worked at had burn scars on her hand. She told me one day when I asked her name and we stuck up a conversation. The simple thing that my dad taught me has opened worlds for me.
I learned the importance of charity from him. He told me that it is silly to drive hard bargains with someone to whom five or ten rupees means so much more than it does to me. I finally learned that it was not money that was important to him, it was the success, or rather the need to prove himself. With his actions, he emphasized to me the importance of honesty, education, reading, hard work, perseverance, and continuous self-improvement. He taught me interpersonal skills and the importance of good communication. I get my English skills from him and to this day I feel the best compliment that I receive on my writing is that it is on par with his.
Above all, I realized that he gave me something that I had taken so much for granted because I have never lived without it – freedom and independence. In the 80s and 90s in Chennai, India, I had so much more freedom than girls in Chennai have even today. He never made me feel that I couldn’t or shouldn’t do something just because I was a girl. All around me, I had friends who were treated differently than their brothers at home but I never felt that way. It was a shock to me when I grew up and realized that not all girls had the freedom that I took for granted. At age 20, he trusted me to go off to Australia by myself to study what I wanted.
In the past four years, I was blessed with the opportunity to live in his house once again. The experience brought us closer than we have ever been. We had long conversations that made me understand and learn so much more. I continue to learn from him every day. Someday, I hope to have the same simple and implicit faith that he has in the divine. A college friend of mine once told me that I would grow to change my opinion of my dad later in life and she was right about that. I am just glad that I got to know him and cherish him before it was too late. I know that I am incredibly blessed because I have some close friends who did not have that time with their dads. With all that I know now, I feel their loss even more deeply.
To my much-misunderstood father: I love you.