Everything I have ever known about my father,
I have heard from my mom.
The stories about how my father had left home when he,
Was just 12,
Living in a stranger’s house,
In another village,
Just for the sake of education.
When my father graduated high school,
My grandfather didn’t have the money to afford college for him,
My father fought with grandpa
And moved to the city,
He wanted to be,
A doctor.
When a village boy fends for himself in the business hub of the country,
It’s usually not a simple story,
Much like a stray dog fighting for measly meals in the hustle and bustle of the city,
My father fought so that he could stand up on his own feet.
My mom once described the one bedroom apartment,
That my father used to live in,
A small room with a toilet,
In a slum,
My dad’s vacationing in Germany now.
My father has always been there,
He tucked me in on the cold nights
When the blanket fell off.
He kissed my forehead as I slept,
Because at 3am,
There was a man somewhere,
Whose body refused to let him live.
My father was there every time I received an award,
But still,
It felt like,
He wasn’t.
My father never told me his stories,
He never sat me down and opened up to me,
I didn’t get heart to hearts,
I got iPhones and PlayStations,
I didn’t see struggles and empty tables,
I never went hungry,
I only heard stories of struggle and was reminded by my mother,
Of how good I had it.
It was usually midnight,
And dad wouldn’t be home.
It was usually his birthday and we were on Skype,
It was usually cigarettes under my breath,
And he would turn a blind eye,
It was usually,
Always,
The same.
Till date,
My grandfather doesn’t know how to appreciate family,
I don’t blame my father for being non confrontational,
I guess,
He just never learned that emotions can be expressed,
And that family,
Is like a canvas
And my father is the paintbrush,
And without him-
I can’t add colour to this empty white.
