As a kid, I lived in a close knit community where every household knew each member of the other by name. Men and women grew old watching their own kids or that of their neighbours marry, have kids, and even grandchildren of their own. They would then die, and their children would take over the home, responsibilities and yeah sometimes even jobs that their fathers or mothers held. Now, you must understand one thing here. Mine was not a community where variations in professions existed. If monotony of profession ever existed anywhere, it was at the place where I grew up. All men ( and some women too, for they believed in joint income even then) worked in the garbage collection industry - my dad included. Of course there were different levels of positions just like any other organisation - some were drivers of garbage trucks and those who never got round to getting their driving licenses ended up as manual workers.
Just the other day, a colleague sitting in my car as I drove her to lunch complained (as we passed by a garbage truck) of the stench garbage trucks leave behind when they do their rounds. I still remember running up to my father (when I was no more than 6 or 7) as he would come back from his work . I don't remember having ever smelled anything stench-like on him - the man must have sat for hours at end in a garbage truck much like the one my colleague complained about.
Probably I was so overcome by my love for him that I could not (even if I tried) see or smell anything unpleasant on him. Come to think of it, I must have silently admired the man even from those days when I hardly knew what admiration really meant. This I say because I can still recollect how I would anxiously wait for him to shower, and sit right opposite him on the cool cement floor of our old house, within arm's length and watch adoringly as he ate - each handful of food that went into his mouth, the way he deboned his fish, how he he would pour fiery-coloured fish curry onto the rice and the beautiful (absolutely beautiful) way he would mix both thoroughly without creating any unsightly mess (like some people who eat with their hands do). And when he ate, he ate with such peace and joy that spoke well for the hard earned money that helped put his food on his plate. He was "the man" of my life then....probably he was much more than that..perhaps he was to me this superhero or god who put up with all my silliness and weird questions and still loved me to no end.
Yeah, my dad was a beautiful man with many beautiful ways and mannerisms. He had a fiery temper no doubt (sometimes) and I can still remember the sting I felt on my skin when he slapped my face when I was a little girl (the only time he ever hit me). And yes, he had absolutely no regard for liars or hypocrites and would openly reprimand them and put them to shame. True, my father was no Mr. Popularity among hypocrites. But he was the most sincere, disciplined man I have ever met.
Today, or the first time in 7 years since he passed on, I am missing him terribly....My heart feels heavy, and tears are fighting against the controls of dignity to push themselves through. I cannot explain why.
Appa, I wish the world had more men like you...and wherever you are now, please know that a part of you is always in me though I have never really openly addressed it till now. I cannot ask for the mundane wish most women make, that their loved ones who had passed on get reborn through their own wombs. Perhaps the word mundane is unfair - let's just say it's another way of me addressing my incapability - not in a bitter way but in a less dramatic manner. I may never have the opportunity to pay you back for what you gave me Appa...but please know that my love for you is there within me...deeply embedded where noone else can see it or attempt to replace it in the guise of love...
