Dad and I

So, he gave me my Maharashtrian genes. 

My relationship with my father is probably the most wonderful one I have ever had (I can count only one other that is similar). People who know the both of us, often tell me I’m a lot like him in spirit and thinking; I would really like it if that were indeed  true! Earlier, people would also tell me I resembled him, but from my latest picture, I think I look more like my lovely mother. I would certainly be happier if my similarity with my father ended at the cerebral, emotional, spiritual and mental.

My first impressions of music, reading and life were through my father’s ears and eyes, as far back as my memory goes, which is to the time I was about 3-4 years old and in the lovely Pacific island of Fiji. My father had learnt Carnatic music as a child and I believe that’s where I got my musical leanings from; however, my siblings do not share this taste in music. Being the youngest of my parent's children, I enjoyed this very special place in the family - everyone was protective of me. My brother would be protective of me when we were outdoors (it’s a different matter that indoors we fought like cats!), my sister sat up until late in the night to help me enjoy algebra (I topped in class!) and my mother…well, she made me a complete person. My father was quick to lose his temper, but was also the most affectionate man I knew. At close to eighty years now, he is the coolest dad ever! I guess he has realised through his years that there are many things in life that are immaterial. I can claim, with confidence, to have learnt that much sooner! 

Dad taught me how to read and what to read. I think the latter was the more important of the two. It shaped my taste in literature, poetry and language and my reading list over the years has shaped my thinking and has greatly influenced the way I express myself, through words or otherwise. He still refers articles and books that I diligently add to my reading list. And if he remembers something in the middle of the night, relevant to a discussion we may have had, he stays up either writing it down or repeating it until the first rays of the Sun, when he can “disturb” me to share it! His faith in his memory is really touching.

The one poem that I have a very vivid memory of learning from him was Miller of the Dee, which he had learnt from his father. The lines from that that he stressed on were ‘..I envy nobody, no, not I, and nobody envies me..’ (I learnt later that it was only one of the many versions of the folksong/poem). I did remember this when I stood by the river at Chester. 

He would engage us all in discussions, help us make out logical arguments and encouraged us to think. It didn’t matter whether we were right or wrong, what mattered was that we could think coherently, clearly and logically. This holds till date.

A few days back I had shared a post with my friends on Facebook to which one of my friend’s, Abhijit, commented: ”Interesting perspective, but I do not agree with you.” My response: “It would be disastrous if everyone agreed with me!”

I think this is an attitude that I got from my dad. He always tells me that disagreements are good; they lead to discussions and churn out new ideas and thinking - “If everyone thinks alike, life gets boring”, he says.

I still remember the LPs that my father possessed, a few of which he had carefully brought along with him to Fiji. M.S. Subbulakshmi, D.V.Paluskar, Lalgudi Jayaram, Doraiswamy Iyengar, S. Balachander, Mogubai Kurdikar, Bhimsen Joshi were some of the stalwarts that I grew up listening to. He also had an LP of Meera Bhajans rendered by Lata Mangeshkar (Chalavahi Desh) that would move him to tears! I guess I got this very emotional side from him, too!

A few years ago, when he gave us a health scare that saw him in the ICU battling for life, my sister and I sat anxiously in the waiting room of the hospital, recollecting the wonderful upbringing he gave us - our schooling, interests, and education. For a man who lost his father before he became an adult, to reading under the street lights of Chennai (then Madras), becoming a Ford's scholar and, eventually, a director in a company, his life-story certainly inspires me. Today, he has lost a limb and vision in one eye, but he laughs his heart out as much as he argues with me passionately. He sings some notes and asks me to identify the raga, and when I fail to, he shows his disappointment. 

Clearly, I still have a lot to learn…