Warmth of a father’s heart and labour of love

Rummaging through old diaries, I hit upon a treasure. It was a letter written on a fading white paper in a familiar handwriting. My late father wrote it 30 years ago when he returned from Kota after staying with us for a month. Every word oozed love and longing expressing his desire to be with us again. However, that was not to be.

Surprisingly, he was a strict father, who loved us but never expressed it. Pampering was out of the question. I was barely four when suddenly one day he made me sit on his bicycle and admitted me to a school. The next morning onwards, face awash with tears, I would daily march to and from school carrying a bag and a wooden plank (takhti). School buses and rickshaws were unheard of. Even moms did not kiss goodbyes; rather a slap or two were delivered if one got late for the school, of which a repeat enactment was followed in the school. Teachers and parents firmly believed in the age-old maxim: Spare the rod and spoil the child.

We took physical punishment in our stride, chanting, ‘Do paiiyan vissar gayian, sadke meri dhooyee de (Two blows are nothing, thanks to my back)’. However, we tried to avoid the situation by doing our home task and learning lessons religiously, before slipping for play in the street to be back by the time father arrived from office.

Sundays were tough. We were lined up in the sun for a mustard oil massage. Father would rub the oil so hard that our limbs started aching. When questioned whether grandpa did the same to him, he would reply in the affirmative adding that after massage, they were made to do push-ups, sit-ups and wrestle with each other to make the body strong.

Milk was the drink of choice and curd was used in place of soap while bathing, so that the skin does not become dry. Geysers were not born and even in winter, cold water was used for bathing. This was the most difficult part and we detested it vehemently. I would run away and he would have a hard time catching me, with oil all over my body. Cold water notwithstanding, it was the warmth in his heart that made him labour so much. He would not only pedal to and from office six days a week but would also carry the ration, bags of coal, firewood and dung cakes on his cycle to keep the home fire burning.

His own needs were limited. I always saw him every winter in the same coat and pants. In Shakespeare’s dramas, ‘a threesuited fellow’ was a derogatory expression used for a poor person, and here my father had only one. He never wanted another. However, when I demanded one, he scolded me. Taking offence, I ran away from home and returned only when he ordered a woollen suit for a 14-year-old insensitive brat that I was. He did not spend on himself to send us to colleges. In the process, he consumed himself, so that we may not face difficulties that he faced in his life.

Years of hard work took their toll. He grew weak and developed epilepsy. He was not allowed to travel alone for fear of fits and never came to stay with us again. Days spent together at Kota danced before my eyes as I held his letter.

A few years ago when he died, it was my turn to bathe him on a cold January morning. The water had turned cold while rituals were being conducted. He did not detest. Though there was no oil on his body, he kept slipping from my hands. Through the veil of tears, I could see him running after me, catching me and bathing me.

WE WERE LINED UP IN THE SUN FOR A MASSAGE. FATHER WOULD RUB THE OIL SO HARD THAT OUR LIMBS STARTED ACHING