Father’s Day is just past, I see countless messages on Facebook dedicated to fathers all over the world. It warms my heart to browse through these loving messages, some posted in memory of those long gone. My father left this world while I was still in school.  My mind refused to accept this hard fact and at no time was this brought to light with more force than one day, the same month, when I was standing alone in our verandah, looking out at the street beyond. Monsoon had set in by then. The street was empty. Our house was full with many family members spending a few days with us during this period of bereavement. I am not sure how long I had been standing, quietly gazing out at the street. It must have been quite some time for soon my elder sister came out looking for me. She wanted to know why I was standing alone in the dark. Waiting for Baba, slipped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. An awkward silence ensued. We avoided looking at each other pretending I hadn’t spoken of that which was uppermost in our minds. Yes, we missed our father. Terribly. And, wanted him back.

I remember waiting the same way almost every evening for father when he was still with us, and at the first sign of his arrival running down to the gate to welcome him; he would always have sweets for us kids.

Habits are hard to shake off.

My father was quiet by nature but with a huge capacity to show his affection to us in a myriad ways. Those days we did not verbalize our love because it just wasn’t done, depending, rather, on action to demonstrate this love. Now, older (and hopefully wiser) as I look back to those years of my childhood from what little time I got to spend in father’s company I can almost unravel the mystery that was Baba. Humans are mysterious creations, fascinating and deep. What we see up front may just be the top layer of a persona that is immensely complex, and as each layer is peeled it will reveal yet another interesting piece of information until the last layer is reached. At this point we can only make our own deductions. Such was my father’s personality.

I have seen father immersed in reading so he was a lover of books, historical mostly. Maybe that’s where I got my love of history. Our home library was bursting at the seams since both our parents loved the written word. So it is easy to find the connection to our own reading habits.

Once I came across a pencil sketch tucked away in a book, this was after father was gone. The sketch was done by father. I held it up marvelling at the purity of line, perfect blend of light and shade, a small portrait of a person. The signature at the bottom told its own story. I knew father could draw for he had helped me in my endeavours a few times, but never something as perfect as this sketch. Why hadn’t I seen it before? Perhaps father was too busy looking after a family and had to put his talent on the back-burner.  If only I could have spent more time with him, maybe then he would have shared this secret with me.

Father cared deeply for the house that had come down generations to be our home.  It was a sprawling, one-storied structure. Just before Easter the house received a coat of paint throughout thus making it sparkle like new. There were three gardens – one in front, the second in the courtyard and the third and largest to the side. The garden in the courtyard was my mother’s domain. The garden to the side had tall trees and father also made sure we grew vegetables in it. The gardener did a lovely job, under father’s direct supervision.

Most summer evenings, when the sun was on its last leg, father stood in the courtyard, water hose in hand, ready to spray water on the cement floor to keep the verandah cool. This is where we played hopscotch, my middle sister and I. He would then raise it in a wide arc and pause for a few seconds. That was our cue. My sister and I dashed under the arc shrieking defiance at the water, and still laughing wildly made it safely to the other side. Father would then lower the hose his eyes twinkling all the while. I can’t explain what fun that was only that I remember it to this day and the memory never fails to bring a smile to my face.

As children we are busy with our lives rarely giving a second thought to parents, taking them for granted, and expecting them to be immortal. But life has other plans, of course.

So many years have gone by and yet my memory of our father will always remain fresh. A person, human being, doting father, Baba must have had aspirations and dreams of his own. Was he able to realize any of them? I will never know but I like to think he did. How else could he have been inspired to be that special person, a perfect father, in the short time he was with us?

To their children parents will always remain as parents, because parenthood is for always.

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

Purabi Das

Purabi Das is an emerging writer and poet living in Pickering who finds inspiration for her stories and poems from life in general. To find out more visit Purabi on www.facebook.com/purabisinhadas