My father was 50 years ahead of time: A Father’s Day tribute

He introduced me to English debating. He taught me writing, tone, and intonation. Every competition I entered, I’d scan the audience. Invariably, his was always the loudest clap. Even when I lost. He encouraged us to question him. Argue with him. He was a friend. We shared every incident with him. We never feared him. In return, he gave us unfathomable love. I don’t know how to repay that debt. But I know this: From Heaven, my 110-year-old father is watching every achievement, every success in my life-- with loud applause and blessing us all

Every child loves his or her father and hero-worships him. But some fathers are ‘hatke’. My father was one among this lot. If he were alive today, he would be nearly 110 years old. He would have seen the world change completely, but I am sure one thing wouldn’t have changed—his heart.

Educating all his three girls in the 1950s and 60s wasn’t just ‘unusual’. It was revolutionary. Back then, society thought that money was ‘wasted’ on girls because “they will get married and end up in the kitchen anyway.” But my father chose faith in us over society’s fear.

Against norms, he decided; “My girls will study”. Even today, that makes him an example few can match. He was just an English teacher in a government school. The salary was barely enough to survive. Yet he educated all his six children and fulfilled every small wish within his means. No drama, no debt. Just love, His lesson was simple: “Just if you can, you will have it.” That’s the father who built futures, not just giving gifts. I asked him for a slate. He got me books instead.

At 9 pm sharp, our house went silent. Not for prayers, For All India Radio, New Delhi. He trained all of us to sit and listen to the English news and then debate the ‘topic for today’ that followed. That’s how he taught us to think, not just listen. Weekends smelt of paper and ink, Blitz, The Illustrated Weekly. While others bought comics like Chandamama, he brought home magazines to stretch our English. He knew words were weapons. Classical cinema was our monthly luxury. He took us to R K Narayan’s ‘Guide’ and V Shantaram’s ‘Jhanak Jhanak Payal Baaje’.

Art over snacks. Always. And Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s political meetings? He held my little finger and took me along. I was the most interested among the siblings. He didn’t just take me. He trusted me to understand. Money was tight, so he substituted family expenses with sacrifice. He taught English to undergraduates at an evening college, just so we wouldn’t feel the pinch. He knew we would study late into the night. So, he’d walk all the way home to save bus fare… and spend that money on jalebi and chiwda from Ashok Mithai Bhandar, opposite Deepak Mahal cinema hall! Sweetness delivered after midnight. The taste lingers in my mouth even today!

Shoes were scarce. One pair for school, one chappal for everything else. But before we noticed a tear, he would quietly put them in a bag and run to the mochi for repairs. That was his love—invisible, pre-emptive. When we girls were in our chums, he was the one who arranged hot water and comfort. Imagine in the 60s, a father doing that. Unheard of. He never asked, “Is this mother’s work?” He just asked “Are you okay talli? {amma}

I was a thin, fussy child, who hated dal and vegetables. Only wanted curd rice with banana. Bananas weren’t sold in every corner like today, especially in Hyderabad summers. So, he walked all the way to Mozamjahi market, just so his daughter wouldn’t starve. Headaches haunted me as a child. Someone suggested Threptin biscuits. 18 rupees a box- a fortune for a middle-class family then. But he walked to Abids, to J J Dechane &co., and brought them anyway. A daughter’s health over budget. He introduced me to English debating. He taught me writing, tone, and intonation. Every competition I entered, I’d scan the audience. Invariably, his was always the loudest clap. Even when I lost.

Medical admissions favoured boys then when allotting seats for extracurricular activities. I lost my seat. My father couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t see my disappointed face either. He filed a case in the High Court. It cost him a huge amount. “A boy will look after the family,” the judge ruled. My father lost, but he taught me something bigger: Daughters deserve a fight too. After graduation I worked at a bank, and returned to Narayanguda from Khairtabad by bus. Hell, or high water, he was at the bus stop every single night to walk me home. That was his security system.

He encouraged us to question him. Argue with him. He was a friend. We shared every incident with him. We never feared him. In return, he gave us unfathomable love. I don’t know how to repay that debt. But I know this: From Heaven, my 110-year-old father is watching every achievement, every success in my life-- with loud applause and blessing us all.