How I miss my father

How I miss my father. He died in 2016—before his expiry date, the cheeky bugger. His official “best before” was 100 years, but he decided to clock out 16 years early, like someone leaving a party before the cake arrives. No warning, no note. Just poof. Gone. Like a magician who forgot the reappearing act. Like a TV show canceled mid-season. No farewell tour, no final speech, not even a "I'll be back" like some lamas . Just an empty chair and a lifetime of unanswered questions.

How I miss my father now like a child missing his mother—except the child is me, a soon-to-be 50-year-old who still can’t find his car keys half the time. I miss him like a penguin misses the Arctic (yes, I know they're in Antarctica—that's how confused I am without him).

I remember when I was a little boy, I used to sleep inside his bed. So warm and cozy he kept me—like a human burrito wrapped in love and old-man smells. Not bad smells, mind you. The smell of hard work, of soil, of yesterday's dinner and tomorrow's worries. I'd burrow into his side like a mole digging for gold. His arm was my pillow, his snoring my lullaby. These days, my expensive memory foam pillow costs $50 and still doesn't love me back. Which sounds great, except now the silence is too loud.

But when I grew up, I graduated to the upper-floor bedroom, where I thought I was king of the house. I had a poster of actors. I had a radio. I had big dreams and zero clue. Little did I know, the real king was downstairs, waking up at 5 AM like a rooster on a spiritual mission—or like a man who'd lost a bet with the sun. He would recite his mantra loud and clear, so tuneful—except "tuneful" here means aggressively sad. Imagine a dying whale harmonizing with a broken harmonium. That was my father.

He didn’t just chant. He sang the mantra. Like a broken-hearted nightingale who’d just been ghosted by God. Like a man who'd seen too much and was asking the universe for a refund. And that voice? It cut right through my teenage soul like a hot knife through butter—or more accurately, like a cold truth through denial. How that made me emotional. I’d lie in bed, pretending to be asleep, while secretly tearing up like I was in a Bollywood tragedy directed by a monk. I'd wipe my eyes with the corner of my pillowcase and swear it was allergies. At 5 AM. In a dust free room. Yes, very believable. Oscar worthy performance!

Then came my middle age—which, for the record, lasted from roughly 15 to 35. (Yes, I was a late bloomer. Don’t judge. Some flowers take forever to realize they're not cactuses.) During that long adolescence, I disliked my father’s advice. Actually, let me be honest: I disliked him. Because I, the great genius who once put a potato on a fire( "It'll cook faster, Dad!"), who once got angry with ants (they were looking at me wrong),  who once argued with a teacher and lost—I knew everything. Yes, I had life figured out. Spoiler alert: I did not. Not even close. I was flying a plane made of cardboard and calling myself a pilot.

Every piece of advice he gave, I rolled my eyes so hard I could see my own brain. "Save money," he'd say. I'd buy useless junk - including a life-sized postcards of Indian actors I no longer like. "Respect elders," he'd say. I'd argue with brothers about who got the last piece of chicken bones. So much for knowing everything.

Now I’m almost turning 50—golden jubilee where no one’s keen to celebrate this aging. And guess what? The universe has a sick sense of humor. It laughs at you while you're crying. It serves you regret with a side of "I told you so" from the grave. I wish my father were here. I sob thinking about it. I was so cruel and unkind to him that if there were an award for World’s Worst Son, I’d have a shelf full of trophies, a parade in my honor, and probably a reality TV show. I once told him his cooking was boring. His cooking. The man who ate cold rice so we could have warm food. What was wrong with me? Everything. The list is longer than a grocery receipt on Christmas Eve.

I think of his life now. How he and my mother raised eight of us during those times. Eight! That’s not a family, that’s a small army with no payroll. That's a cricket team plus substitutes. That's a minibus at full capacity with someone sitting on someone else's lap. We were eight hungry mouths, eight pairs of shoes to buy, (and we wore them until our toes waved hello), eight fevers to tend to at 2 AM, eight exam results to pretend were "fine" even when they were a 12 out of 100. 

Working very hard in the fields, uncomplaining. He never said, "I'm tired." He never said, "I've had enough." He just woke up earlier and slept later. The sun was his boss, and he never asked for overtime pay. Providing us clothes and food and sending seven of us to school. (The eighth one? That was me. Just kidding—we all went, somehow. I think he sold a kidney. Not really. But wouldn't put it past him.)

It was definitely expensive and street for him—by which I mean tough, not hip-hop. He didn't rap about his struggles. He lived them. No music video. No Grammy. Just dirt under his fingernails and dreams in his eyes. But he suffered to make our lives better. Oh my god, I can’t think about it now. My head is breaking into pieces like a cheap biscuit dipped in emotional tea. And the tea is scalding. And I have no milk to cool it down. And someone just ate the last biscuit. (Probably one of my own kids.)

How did he manage all of us safe and sound, happy and healthy? It's like asking how a poor magician pulled 8 rabbits out of one empty hat. I don't know. Nobody knows. It's a dad miracle. Meanwhile, I have two boys, and I’m already considering early retirement to a cave. No, really. I've looked up caves on real estate websites. Some have good ventilation. Two! And I’m overwhelmed. TWO! Not eight. Two. And one of them refuses to eat vegetables (he says they "look suspicious" 

).The other one thinks "clean your room" is a suggestion, not a command. And I'm here losing my mind like a squirrel in a traffic jam.

He had eight and probably still found time to fix the roof, build a cupboard, plow the field, settle a neighbor's dispute, and visit neighbours to see if they are still alive. Meanwhile, I struggle to assemble IKEA furniture and end up with extra screws and a wobbly shelf that leans like it's had a long day.

Now, for me, it’s difficult to raise my family. I should have learned from my father. Oh, how I miss him. I always think about his determination, his hardworking nature, his uncomplicated and mild way of dealing with any kind of problem—like when the cow got loose, or when I broke the window (again), or when the roof again needed fixing (because the first fix was temporary, and "temporary" in our house meant 14 years). He’d just shrug and say, “It’s okay. We’ll manage.” Meanwhile, I spill milk and consider it a family crisis. I drop an old radio and act like I've been personally victimized by gravity. 

Oh, how I miss my late father. And I’m lucky to have my mother now—but she’s also far away. No tangible help can be provided, which makes me feel worthless and unhelpful at times. Although I give some monetary help. (Thanks, internet banking. You make guilt so much easier to transfer. One click, and bam—I've outsourced my emotional responsibility.) But money doesn't make tea. Money doesn't say, "khotsa, eat more, you're looking thin." Money doesn't tell embarrassing stories about me as a baby. Money is a cold, digital bandage on a wound that needs a warm, living hand.

Life’s like that. It turns around the other way round. Just when you think you’re the child, you become the parent. And just when you want to say sorry, the person you owe an apology to has already expired 16 years early. The universe's favorite hobby is bad timing. It's been practicing for centuries.

That makes me sad. Not the fake sad you feel when your favorite show ends. The real sad. The heavy sad. The kind that sits on your chest at 3 AM and asks, "Remember that time you were rude to him? Remember that time you didn't call? Remember that time you chose your friends over him?" Yes, insomnia. I remember. Thank you for the highlights reel of shame. Can I cancel this subscription?

How I wish I could turn back the clock. I’d wind it all the way to 5 AM, crawl into that warm, cozy bed, and say, “Dad, please sing your sad mantra one more time. And this time, I’ll listen. No, really. I’ll even cry out loud. I won't pretend to be asleep. I won't wipe my tears on the pillow. I'll just lie there, next to you, and let your broken-nightingale voice fill the room. And then maybe—just maybe—I'll tell you I love you before you finish. Because I never said it enough. Not nearly enough.” Also, I'm sorry about the potato incident. And the not saving money. And every stupid thing in between.

There are many stories to write about my father… it will never end.

It's like trying to count the stars or apologize for all the times you were wrong. You get close, but never done. Every memory is a door. Every door leads to another room. And every room has his voice, his walk, his quiet way of fixing things—including me. Especially me.

So I'll keep writing. Not for anyone else. For him. And for the 45.year-old boy who still misses his daddy's warm bed and his 5 AM concert of sorrow and love. Even if that concert sounded like a dying harmonium. Especially because it did.