By Bennet Thomas
To all those who yearn for a fatherly figure in their lives, who wish to understand how a house becomes a home, who wish to understand the extent of a parent’s love, and above all, who wish they were fortunate enough to have parents, and to those who have heartbreakingly lost one or both of them,
This one’s for you all.
Dear papa,
You were always an enigma to me. I didn’t learn about the person you are by watching you as I grew, but rather through the legendary stories your sisters and other extended members of the kin had to relay. But above all, I learnt about the person you are from none other than my mother herself. The way you treated her spoke more than you ever could.
The story wherein appupa (grandfather) passed away when you were 18, which led to you packing your bags and heading straight to the sprawling city of Delhi from our humble abode in Kerala, to secure a job, never ceases to amaze me. You, being the eldest in the family, and naturally the one who’s duty to bring bread and butter to the table fell upon, does not surprise me. But, what does surprise me is you taking that duty to a whole new level. You single-handedly providing for a family of ten is not just a mere feat, it’s a sheer miracle. From educating your two-year old youngest brother to ensuring that all your sisters got happily married before you did, you ended up becoming more of a father figure to them than an elder brother. You aren’t just mine alone papa. Even though it goes without saying, you are shared by many.
My favourite stories are the ones which involve people who have been at the receiving end of your infamous temper. Oh, the stories about your temper are legendary, I could go on and on about them. But the best part about these stories was the takeaway that I never got to see a glimpse of this side in you with amma and me. Ever. I vividly recall the day I broke one of your favourite showcase items and your face morphed into that signature mask of terror, one which could make a grown man’s knees tremble. Mine sure used to. With your lower lip clenched tight beneath your upper teeth, you used to come at me with hands flaying like a raging hurricane, and I would burst into tears without the slightest delay. The best part was your hand wouldn’t even have grazed me but I would cry like a toddler nonetheless. It was years later, through the stories told, that I realized you wouldn’t have laid a single finger upon me. Years of handling your siblings had carved you out to be a formidable figure in the anger department, but never gave you the heart to actually act upon it. You had this beautiful façade laid out for everyone to see, a screen which showed you only at your most serious. At home was where you gave the screen a chance to fall away, revealing the person hidden beneath; the kindest, giving, and most empathetic person that you could find. The person I am proud to call papa and the person my mother calls Babuchetta (slang for husband). Why you never wanted people to know how much of a softie you are at heart, will always be a mystery to me.
We might not share a father-son bond like the one we get to relish in the movies where they both have an intimate conversation and hug it out with tears and smiles in the end. No, that isn’t how most father and son bonds are or atleast isn’t how it is in my case. We never used to talk much. I guess that’s partly because I relied on amma to share everything with and we never really got to a point where I was comfortable enough to share my experiences with you. And, that’s okay papa. Because I know you care. How do I know, you ask? Because of the instances where I always managed to get my favourite food after an occasion of you getting angry with me, leading to you being uncharacteristically talkative with me, you secretly telling mama to console me, and so much more. You always managed to make amends without saying a single word about it. In short, you said sorry without ever saying it out loud. And that’s alright too papa, because your actions made the loudest impact.
We never had a conversation about my crushes or anything even solely related to love for that matter. That was all amma. But what you did teach me was how to treat your partner with the utmost dignity and respect, nothing less. As the years passed by, I saw how you helped amma cook, supported her through all her trying times, took care of her while she was sick, and most importantly, how you never lost your temper or raised your voice toward her. You gave me lessons on how to treat my life partner with you and amma being live subjects. I couldn’t have asked for a better way to learn. Something which made me understand your depth as a person was the fact that you never once called amma ‘di’ or ‘aval’ (colloquially used in malayalam to refer to females younger than you, something relatively common in all households) inspite of the considerable age gap you both share, and instead always chose to call and refer to her by name alone. I came across this revelation quite late, but once I did, I also discovered the truth prevalent within the saying “Respect is a way of life, and it starts at home”.
You may ask, “Why this letter?” papa.
For once, I want to traverse beyond our silence, reach out for our unspoken words and put into writing all the lessons you have unknowingly gifted me with over the years. For making me the person I am today, and the person I should strive to be toward my loved ones. You taught me how to respect selflessly. You taught me how to give unconditionally. You taught me how to love truly. And for that I will always be grateful.
They say that sons are usually closer to their mothers and daughters to their fathers, and I absolutely agree. My confidante has always been my amma. But, albeit all the unshared moments we never got to have, through all the stories I never got to share, through the endless silences we both have mutually endured, I know that you will always be a silent spectator in the crowd, always rooting for me, cheering me on, and ready to catch me if I fall, for you are and will always continue to be, my first hero.
Thank you for everything papa.
With all the love he can possibly muster,
Your mon (son in Malayalam)
By Bennet Thomas
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