June 1999, Lucknow: My cousin and I joined a clay modelling class during our summer vacations at the colony club. Much to our dismay, the art academy went on to exhibit our clay models to sell them for profit without the consent of the students or their parents. All it took was my sulking face for dad to turn himself into a hell-raiser and disrupt the exhibition.
As a result, the toys were exhibited but none were sold and the children were returned their creations. Bringing back what belonged to me was probably his way of teaching me to fight for my rights.
Cut to June 2016, New Delhi: Here I am, a 31-year-old vixen on a rampage, arguing with a bunch of heavily accented presumably “Kaneda” returned NRIs, trying to bully me and my best friend at a South Delhi movie hall.
An enviably calm husband (aka my voice of reason), popped pills of “ignore-it-all”, one reason why I love this man. But I admit at that moment I missed dad who I bet was smirking in some corner of heaven loaded with liquor and red meat.
We both had a penchant for retributive justice. Mine is mostly inherited. So it was Swarup Sr who taught me never to take crap in life. If he was there, those abusive misogynists would have run with their tails between their legs.
Unfortunately when a girl has a daddy that strong, it is a high tragedy for her better half.
Reticent in his approach, Papa’s rapport with me developed much later in life. Even though his presence was distant (partly to be blamed on his hectic administrative career), it left its own silent impact. Having dealt with politicians on a daily basis and refused to play puppet to their egos, he taught me to stand my own ground and never bow down to intimidation.
Even though his anger issues horrified me deeply, thanks to him I now realise the role of heredity when I clench my teeth. While I learnt to hurl the choicest of Hindi expletives from him, it was his fearless ability to take decisions without caring about pleasing others that inspires me till date.
Quite the gentle patriarch, Mohan embraced his daughter’s emancipated choices in life while at the same time teaching her to take pride in her Kayastha roots that belong to Eastern UP’s Balrampur, not as swanky as New York but equally rich in culture and cuisine.
Having lost his father at a fairly early age and his first wife to kidney failure, Papa dealt with setbacks with a smile upon his face and maybe that’s the kind of elephantine strength that I still yearn for. And even though June also marks his seventh death anniversary, I’d rather celebrate his dynamic persona on Father’s Day than mourn his loss which was due to medical negligence — a topic that shall find a vent soon but not today. Simply because nothing can ever replace the warmth of his paternal presence and our dysfunctional memories that still leave me with a silly grin.
P.S. Monu was his nickname
(At The Quint, we are answerable only to our audience. Play an active role in shaping our journalism by becoming a member. Because the truth is worth it.)