Another Father’s Day

Another Father’s Day rolls around and although I have my reservations about commercial Hallmark themed celebrations, I guess it is good to have a Mother’s Day, a Veteran’s Day, a remembrance day because perhaps it does draw your attention to someone specific in this crazy kaleidoscope vision we live in. So on Father’s Day, I do think of fatherly figures I have known. Mostly, I stop and think about my father.

Larger than life is the term that comes to mind. My father was a tall big person, who had vitality and infectious energy. He was ambitious and hardworking. He came from a village in rural India where no one had an education and he completed his Ph.d  in the US. He was a natural leader and his enthusiasm got projects done. He was a family man, who loved his wife and kids, his parents and siblings and extended family. He did not like to be alone. He did not like to laze around or be a couch potato. He loved meeting people, he loved traveling , he loved getting things done. He was not a hands-on father, helping with homework or projects as he was away from home a lot. He was a man on the move, ready to jump in his car and go somewhere, get something done.

I remember being a child in a big, rambunctious family, where we knew when Daddy was home from office. He would toss babies in the air as my mother shrieked and we laughed. He would load us all in the car and we’d go for a drive to Grandad’s Bluff, and get root beer floats on the way home. He would take us to his office and we would eat sugar cubes in the faculty lounge. We would go for road trips to Iowa and Illinois and stay with friends, as he would speed on the two lane highways and we stuck our hands out the window. I remember my father cooking a lot, usually on the grill, as Mom was always pregnant. Many evenings, after we were put to bed, we would creep out  and watch my parents sitting and talking and listening to Hindi LP’s. Many evenings we would have babysitters as my parents dressed up and went out for Rotary Club dinners or outings.

When I was 7, I went to Madison for an operation to correct my harelip. I remember being in the Children’s Hospital, wandering around talking to other kids with casts and machines attached to them. I was getting a little frightened because they were not well. When the anesthesiologist came to take me in, I was scared and just said, “Daddy!”. He said, “Hold my thumb, beta, it’ll be alright.” I held his thumb as the mask came down and I knew it would be alright.

We moved to India and my father was busy overseeing construction of our house and the school which my mother devoted most of her life to. We would load up in the car and drive to my father’s village where he would be surrounded by his extended family. My father would sit in the chaupal, the men’s gathering courtyard and talk to his father, brothers, uncles and cousins. He would stride through the fields eating raw sugarcane, checking irrigation canals and talking to farmers in the fields.

Back in the city, we had school, books, TV, neighbors and friends to fill our world. My parents entertained a lot and there were often 10-20 people on the dinner table. My father had an office at home where he met folks more formally. Then he would leave for the US to teach and we’d go to the airport to drop him off and pick him up.

I remember my father holding the back carrier seat while I wobbled on the bike, until he finally let go and I mastered riding a bike. I remember my father sitting on the sofa by the phone. When it rang, all the girls would run to answer it. He would pick it up and answer and to our chagrin, the young swain on the other side would not answer. I remember how proud he was of his family.

I remember loading up in the car and driving downtown to Chaudhury Sweet House to eat spicy appetizers, or to Mayfair for tutti frutti ice cream. I remember folks visiting my father as he sat royally on a wicker sofa in the front lawn. I remember going for long walks in the neighborhood usually ending in someone else’s lawn for a cup of tea.

I remember my father playing marbles with the neighborhood kids. I remember my father telling us not to cry watching movies on TV because the actors are paid to act like that. I remember him listening to music and startling when we played Donna Summers “Surrender your love” as Surender was his name. I remember my father listening to us, supporting many of our choices, denying our requests to stay at parties later than 10.

I remember traveling with my father to Delhi, Chandigarh, Gwalior, Nainital, each trip a story in itself. When he was Vice Chancellor at Avadh University in Faizabad, he would travel to the 27 colleges that were part of the university and we drove dusty roads to dusty towns where he was often a speaker or chief guest. He was so happy to meet people and loved their attention and appreciation of his presence. 

I remember my father’s final days, recovering and then not recovering from a brain tumor and stroke, forgetting everyone except my mother. Even when I was taking care of him, he would think it was her and calm down. I remember the sadness when he was finally at peace.

I remember Helen Halvorsen, a good family friend whose house was a home to my dad and me for a little while, asking me, “What does ‘beta’ mean?” I told her it means son, but is also used like the word child. “You know, I love to watch your Dad stroke your hair and call you beta. He really does love you kids.” I took it for granted that my Dad loved me. I did know it. I remember feeling safe and feeling loved when he was there. Happy Father’s Day.