Last week my dad turned 72. Instead of sending a card with words chosen by Hallmark, I thought of celebrating his birthday by writing a few words of my own.
Where do I begin to write about a man in whose shadow I longed to be as a boy and from which I wanted to run as far as possible as a man ? With the simple fact that he loves me and I love him, that he raised me as well as he knew, with more support and encouragement than I ever provided him, that he never stopped me in pursuing my ideas no matter how much they went against everything he knew was good or useful ?
Erich Fromm in his classic work, "The Art of Loving" says that while "mother is the home we come from, she is nature, soil, the ocean", the father "represents the world of thought, of man-made things, of discipline, of travel and adventure". It is the father who teaches the child how to get along in the world. If I were to look back on my life from where I stand, I'd say my father has been pretty successful in teaching me to get along in the world, even if sometimes it was by not standing in my way.
My earliest memory of him is of his telling me stories, carrying me on his back as my mom followed us trying to feed me. He was a wonderful storyteller, spinning such fantastical tales that I wanted to eat just so he would continue. Maybe my love for food comes from these nascent memories. Next, I remember my fear of incurring his wrath for all my truancy. I guess I never adapted well to the fact that we moved often as my father was in a transferable job. Since that first move, I'd hate my first days at a new school, even when I was in my last year of high school. I desperately sought reasons to put off the nightmare for one more day. Of having to start all over, impressing teachers, making friends, learning new languages, putting up with the nuances of the new place.
My first memories of self start with Gulbarga when I was about five years old. Entrenched deeply in that memory is of his waking me up on holidays singing "Tum Jago, Mohan Pyare". He was learning to play the tabla and learn Hindustani classical vocal. How I loved to wake up to that song. Lord Krishna is my favorite god, even though I'm an agnostic today. So he sang me to wakening with a song about waking up Lord Krishna. He is a devout man, praying twice a day for at least an hour each time, chanting the hymns and going through the rituals of worship as a brahmin. Entrenched in that too is my anger at not being allowed to play as much as I wanted to, especially in the afternoon. My parents had the habit of resting in the afternoon because it was so hot outside. They forced me to sleep as well, not wanting me to go out and play in the hot sun and become dark. So while other children played, I fumed myself to sleep.
In Kerala, I think it was his encouragement that motivated me to write my first novel at the age of 11. It ran 200 plus pages and it was my first attempt to emulate his fantastic stories. I called it "Terror at Kimtaku" and it terrifies me to read it even as much as it proves an endless well of amusement to my sister and my wife. I had read about kids in America earning something by running errands such as delivering the morning newspaper. My father hired me to write out invoices and fill out entries in the musty account books of the mills he ran. He paid the cashier first and then made it appear that the office was paying me for my services. I was upset when I caught him in the act one day. But as I aged, tears well up at the memory of that act.
"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold... The ceremony of innocence is drowned" wrote W.B. Yeats. That ceremony began for me in high school when I started thinking, of striking out on my own. In the process, I hurt my father in many ways, especially in my decision to give up praying daily, of rejecting the idea of a god, culminating in my discarding the sacred thread worn by brahmins and not joining my family in the evening prayers. I met my future wife and stayed up long hours chatting on the phone. He was worried at what he thought was teen behavior and a passing fancy, but installed a phone extension in my room so that I could talk to her with some privacy.
It was in my days at college that he bought me a Casio computer that allowed me to program in BASIC. I remember days spent in the back benches of the college classes, programming. That was the start of my career as a software programmer. That was the final fork that started the journey that led to the Bay Area, to a home here and a career working with some of the most brilliant people in my field, of earning their respect, of knowing the pride that my father would feel at knowing how far his kid had come from a provincial second-rate college in a small town in India. Of knowing that he believed that I was capable of it.
Yet in those early years of my software life, when I was in the final year of my college, events at his work were set in motion, which hurt my father more than he's admitted openly, of events that I think are mostly responsible for turning a man whose laughter filled a party to someone who sits quiet and pensive and shunned company.
In the book "In the Shadow of a Saint", Ken Wiwa chronicles his relationship with and the life of his father, the famous Nigerian dissident Ken Saro-Wiwa. Ken Wiwa writes: "My father. Where does he end and where do I begin. ... Is his story repeating itself through me, or am I the author of my own fate ? Is he my father, or am I his son ? Where does he end and where do I begin ?" When I look in the mirror, I look very much like my father did in his twenties, even my hairstyle his creation. When I stare at my signature, it is his that I see because I have copied his. When I'm listening to music, I know that it is another example of his gift to me. We may listen to different things, but music has the power to move both of us, we both seek comfort in its power. He regretted not having studied much and I did not study as much as so many of my peers have. When I stand up to authority, it is because I saw him do it. When I hold someone's head and kiss them, I do it like does. Even in the things that I consciously do differently, I'm defined by what he did not do instead of what he did. Somedays, I wonder if he'll ever understand me and my actions, if I'll understand him or will I forever define him by what he was to me as a boy. Ken Wiwa writes: "But the simplest and most profound truth I have learned is that you can never truly know who you are until you know your father".
But whatever happens, I love him and he loves me. I can sleep well knowing that he did the best he knew in raising a child and he can sleep well knowing that his son is forever grateful to him for that. In the popular TV series MASH, there is an episode in which Hawkeye receives a letter about an operation that his father has to undergo. Faraway in Korea, he waits desperately to connect with his dad's hospital to hear about the outcome of the surgery. He's kept company by the snobbish but sensitive Winchester and they talk about their fathers. Hawkeye speaks of the closeness that he shared with his dad and Winchester talks about the formality of his relationship with his. Winchester says at the end "Where I had a father, Hawkeye, you had a dad".
Happy birthday, dad.
Posted by Dinesh G Dutt at 6:20 PM
Labels: opinion
Thank you my Son.
