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| Dad's the word! |
As much as I have vouched for my kin's generosity and able guidance, there are times when I feel that I haven't quite reciprocated their love in a way that, I often feel, I should have, especially when it comes to my father. Quite often I have had to take up the gauntlet of choosing between being my mother's muse and my father's darling. As a child, one never wishes to look beyond what meets the eye. All that appeals to a child is tenderness, concern and the feeling of being loved. And a mother seems to be a perfect representative of all these qualities. My father is an opinionated man. He has faced his own share of struggles to find his way up the ladder of success. A family man, who takes great pride in what he does, my father has always ensured that his kids forge an identity of their own. Today, when I reminisce about all the memories I have with my father, I realize that I've not spent enough time with my father. And all the memories that I have of my father suddenly seem insufficient. The bliss of riding piggy-back on my father or being carried in his arms every time I fell asleep in the car cannot be relived, but I can always, and I'm certain that I will, rely on the human luxury of being able to recollect the most treasured moments of life. And I also know that the good old days will never turn their back on me, just like I know that my father will not.
As a four-year-old, my father would make me sit in his lap and become my invisible driver, while taking me on a drive. He ensured that his preschooling daughter experienced a a high in her own little way through this happening. As a ten-year-old, I was ferried to and from school in a car just so that I wouldn't have to go through the travails that the children who travelled by bus would. As a teenager, who was transitioning into the real world, my father gave me a gift so big that I could barely lay my hands upon it. Freedom it was, folks. Freedom, in the most absolute sense, never comes easy. The freedom to form my own opinions, the freedom to make my own decisions and choices, and the freedom to follow the path I deemed best for myself. Back then, when I was given the freedom to be the ruler of my own destiny, I mistook the gift to be inconsequential. Today, as a young adult, my father continues to remind me of the importance of independence and single-minded devotion, while reposing faith in my abilities and taking pride in what I do.
I, in no uncertain terms, want to say that my equation with my father is a perfect father-daughter equation. No, not at all. I'd much rather that our bond remains real rather than perfect. And, for that, I don't have anything to regret. All that has transpired in the past has only contributed to making me realize the magnanimity of the sacrifices and commitments my father has made for me. Unlike my mother, my father never woke me up in the morning and packed my tiffin before I left for school. He, in fact, worked hard enough to ensure that his children went to a good school and received the best education. Unlike my mother, my father never sang lullabies to me, but he ensured that I received comfort and luxury in my bedroom, so that I could sleep without a worry in the world. Unlike my mother, my father never gave in to my tantrums and emotional demands. He let me tire myself out into maturing after being emotionally drained. Unlike my mother, my father never extended his hand whenever I fell down. He decided to wait for me at the success line till I dusted myself off and prepared myself to get ready, once again, and finish any given challenge.
