The Men of My Life: My Father

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 66 years old today. 

In the span of my first 24 years, I walked alongside my father until his departure from this world. However, my relationship with him continues into the present. Over the years, it went through many ups and downs. There were the happy years of my life when I looked up to him like the finest man I ever knew. Then came moments of uncertainty, where I questioned his choices and capabilities, like every naive child in his early twenties who sees his father's faults magnified and his own aspirations burning bright. Some months felt strangely distant; our conversations revolved around safe topics, avoiding conflict or emotional turmoil. Resentment, too, found a foothold, the ungrateful murmurs of a child yet unseasoned by life's harsh lessons. I daresay I was even angry at him, for leaving me alone when he passed away. While he now rests in peace, it took me over two years after his passing to reconcile and make peace with him.

We held a wake for my father on the twelfth day after his death. Many people came from far and wide to pay their respects and share stories of his kindness. Several of them were strangers to me, and some were even unrecognised by my family. Today, he is fondly remembered by his family, friends, his community of poets, and countless souls whose lives he touched in quiet ways.

Only now do I grasp the full measure of his greatness. In his roles as father, husband, brother, and son, he fulfilled each duty with a steadiness of character. While men and women gathered separately at family gatherings, with the former discussing sports, politics or work, he would often be found in a corner, playing with the children of the family. He was honest in his work, soft spoken in every conversation, helpful to his friends, and showed a great degree of profundity and contemplation that permeated his poems. He was a reliable husband to my mother, affectionate towards all children, humble and loyal towards his family, and unfailingly kind even to strangers. He was different from many fathers I have seen, in that he taught by example, rather than by instruction.

As a writer, he taught me (or tried to, at any rate) to exercise brevity in my words. To use the least possible words to best convey what one wants to say. “We have two ears, and one mouth,” he would say, “That’s the right ratio of listening to speaking.” He'd often remark that a worthy poem extends beyond mere beauty or creativity. It must inspire creativity in others. He cautioned against the temptation that accompanies the gift of eloquence — the tendency of using words to misrepresent truth to one’s convenience. My father taught me not to craft narratives to justify my sins just because I could get away with it.

A while back, I might have argued that true strength lies in mastering one's emotions and never putting oneself in a position where one stands to lose. However, my father imparted a lesson I initially dismissed: that life is not just the art of rising. There is also a certain grace in falling. He taught me not to derive a false sense of confidence by playing only those games that I knew I’d win, but instead to take a chance, have a bit of faith and put something at stake. Some skin in the game — be it money, heart, convictions or willingness to uphold a value, even with unwanted consequences. To go all in, for a dream, even for love. To wear my heart on my sleeve, with pride.

As an individual, he possessed his imperfections, akin to any mortal soul. Each dawn we awaken and try our damnedest to win over our darkness, even though we will inevitably lose on some of those days. It then falls to those who love us to remind us of who we are. To remember the best in us when the worst is on display. Just as we learned to do for our fathers once we got over ourselves. And just as we hope our children will one day do for us. To cast a shroud on our darkness, like the garment that was thrown on Noah by his sons, who saw not themselves their father’s nakedness.