On Father’s Day: Baba, I Have Just Started to Understand You

Happy Father’s Day baba!

(This letter is a part of The Quint’s Father's Day series where readers write their little secrets to their dads.)

When I left home for the first time to study in Chennai, I was full of anticipation. I carefully planned my departure, making sure that I was carrying all the necessities. I didn’t feel I was leaving anything behind – there was no pain of separation.

Around me, my friends talked of how badly they miss their family, how badly they miss home. I couldn’t tell the difference. To me, it was all the same.

‘'Home’ is the centre around which a family is built,’ is what Maa used to say. I believed in it for some time, but for a long time now, I have forgotten that sense of centre.

Somewhere down the line, ‘Home’ had changed to mean the two of us: Maa and I, while Baba became a guest.

Most of my growing years, Baba lived in Gujarat and came home to West Bengal once every two to three months for a fortnight at the most.

Even when he was on leave, you could find him shouting over the phone to some Mr Gupta, asking him to make certain corrections in ‘moisture and carbon percent’.

I have never bothered to ask him what it means, although I was curious once. The few days that he would be home, marked a radical shift in our daily lives. He took over the TV: Maa and I had to give up on our favourite shows.

He preferred eating meals together at the dinner table and I in my room. He had a knack for giving me friendly advice (still does) on every little thing – from how I should solve a particular math problem to which newspaper I should read. When left alone with him, almost always an awkward silence would ensue. I felt as if some stranger was trying to upset the dynamics of my everyday life. I wonder if he felt like a stranger in his own home.

Because he kept finding fault with how Maa ran the household, they argued a lot. When he went back after holidays, Maa missed the banter; I didn’t.

On days of his departures, Maa dragged me out of bed (usually he left early morning) to see Baba off at the gate. Every farewell played out like a routine, with Baba full of things to say – ‘take care of yourself’, ‘don’t trouble your mother’, and ‘study properly’ – while I kept nodding my head in a well-rehearsed fashion with an embarrassed smile.

I have never cried when Baba left, except for once. It was when Baba left home for the first time.

All three of us were living in Allahabad (my birth place) then. Although I was too young to remember everything clearly, I recall a vague conversation between my parents right after my seventh birthday party about him joining a new company. The next day, Baba had asked me what present I wanted from Delhi.

A week later, we were at the main road lugging his suitcase on the rikshaw that would take him to the station. As he patted my head and asked me to take care, an overwhelming feeling of grief overtook me and my eyes were all fuzzy. Waving him goodbye, I kept asking Maa, ‘When will he come back home?’ She assured me: ‘In a month.’

I did see Baba after a month, and after many arrangements the aforementioned lifestyle began. But I feel I still sort of waited for him to come ‘home.’ Baba has retired now. He and Maa live in the house I grew up in West Bengal.

After 7 years, three jobs, and life in three different cities, I can’t help feel that we have switched roles, where I ‘visit home’ during holidays.

I have just started to understand him now.

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