Thanks, Appa :)

Dear Appa,

I know, I know. I know what you think. That I'm falling into the whole sentimental trap of all these American celebrations like Father's Day and what not. I have never celebrated any of these days. Not because I say that everyday is a Father's Day and a Mother's Day. God and a lot of other people know that my relationship with Amma and you is far from perfect :) We've fought, screamed at each other, not spoken to each other, walked away from each other (Okay, am exaggerating Amma) and vowed never to see each other and even disowned each other. Most of this drama happened with you. I've always called you Appa. Not Dad/Daddy/Pa, nothing. Funny how much I miss you more than anyone else when I'm in trouble (actually, I miss you most after marriage. Does that say something? :P)

My earliest memory of you and me having good vibes about each other was in Class 5. Earlier than that, I'm sure there were instances of baap-beti bond, but I'm too vain, flippant and daughter-like to remember any of them. I remember this particular incident in Class 5 because of what you told me that day holds good for me to date. I had my Kannada exams the next day, and if I remember rightly, my Kannada wasn't great those days. I could not write anything on my own. I had to study. And it wasn't going great at 8 PM for me. And I burst out crying and got onto a round of self pity. You took me out of the house and we sat near the gate talking. Just talking of how much you loved me irrespective of Kannada exams (I might as well add Maths exams too!) and how getting the first rank in class never mattered to you. I know this is very regular advice given by most parents (or not?) but something struck a chord much later (I was bored that night listening to you). I still hear you telling me that being a nice person is all that matters. Not a good human being, not a generous, sacrificial human being, but being a nice person. There were nights when you came home way after we slept, or worse, just when we woke up the next morning. It did not make a difference to any of us. It was not like we spent any quality time. We never saw you much, but we always come back to you :)

This reminds me of a funny instance. I dunno if you remember it. Way back when I was in Class 2, your Chittappa (Father's bro) died. And you came to pick me up from school late morning. It was a convent school run by disciplined nuns who did not quite care for your swagger or your idea of a family emergency. So, you walked into class, asked Poornima Ma'am to let me go and she does not recognize who you are! She refused to let a 7 year old girl with a stranger. Of course, I recognized you and all that, even then! It was hilarious when Amma broke the news gently to you that they probably did not know you considering you never remembered which class I was in :P Strangely, I did not feel bad you did not know anything about what I did. It was just a way of life for us.

Another memory which comes flooding through and will probably hold good all my life is your reaction to my falling and getting hurt ( or getting hurt in any other way) (Note to my very-few readers: I fall every 5 minutes. I can fall when I stand. Its just a God-given gift. I'm extremely clumsy and I do not really care. Earlier, it used to be about those bruises. I read Enid Blyton and waited to see my bruises go purple like Fatty's did in the Five-Findouter series!) Every time I fell and hollered in pain, you'd clean the wound, bandage it and all that. You loved doing it. Dunno why. You'd talk while cleaning the wound to distract me. You'd talk about how my wound was so small compared to the numerous problems people face and still do not cry. I'd stop crying immediately. I did not want to be known a coward! That talk (or those talks) still happen. When I was stabbed recently in a robbery attempt at home, you were there telling me how proud you were of me (when everyone else freaked out since I was a bride- to be the next week), but that this stab was nothing compared to a lot of other people's problems out there.

You taught me to make light of everything, and take things as they come. Lately, I've started crying breaking your rules. You never wanted anyone to cry, and we never cried as kids because you'd get irritated. Now, I do not want to cry because I want to be brave for you. Thanks. Thanks for being the father who always confused my name with my sisters, for teaching me how to be generous, for making me strong. Oh, thanks for talking to me after 3 years of fights after I won the Best Outgoing Girl in college, or thanks for the passion you put into my wedding. I do not care about the money, or the glitz. I saw your passion and we fought because of that, and we are going to fight forever because our passions clash. But, do I like that or what?

And Appa, I know there are a million stories to tell about you and me, and us, all the Cubbon Park trips, all the books that you bought for me, all the junk food of the Darshinis, all the fights, all the effort you put into making small conversation with me when I call over the weekend. The "hi, how are you?" that you yourself answer with: "hope you are fine, here's Amma wanting to talk to you."

Like you always tell me whenever I'm in pain, that if you could take my pain away, you'd take it all away from me and suffer yourself. I'd too, Appa.

Love,
Nandu