Papa

There is something about a father’s love that you understand much later in life.As children, we often think of love as hugs, kisses, bedtime stories, and someone constantly asking whether we ate. Mothers usually make love visible. Fathers somehow make it look like responsibility.

My father was never the kind of person who said, “I love you” every day.Instead, his love sounded like, “Take an umbrella.”

“Message me when you reach.”“Don’t spend unnecessarily.”“Did you eat?”“It’s getting late, come home.”

As a child, I sometimes found these things irritating. I wanted him to understand that I could take care of myself. I didn’t realise that every warning was his way of saying, “I worry about you.”

Fathers have this strange habit of hiding their tiredness.They come home after a long day and still ask if everything is okay. They postpone things they want because something at home needs to be paid for. They wear the same things for years but somehow remember exactly what their children need.

And perhaps the saddest part is that we don’t notice most of it while growing up.We notice the times they said no.We remember the restrictions.We complain when they don’t let us go somewhere.

We get annoyed when they ask too many questions.But we rarely notice the things happening quietly in the background.The bill that was paid.The medicine that was bought.

The ride that was arranged.The favourite food that somehow appeared on the table.The extra effort nobody asked about.I think growing up changes the way we see our fathers.

One day, you suddenly realise that the person you thought was simply “being strict” was actually trying to protect you in the only language he knew.

You also start noticing that he is getting older.His hair has changed.He gets tired more easily.He doesn’t walk as quickly as he used to.And suddenly, the thought of time becomes frightening.

Because when we are young, we assume our parents will always be there exactly as they are.We don’t imagine the day when their voice might become weaker or when we might miss something as ordinary as being called from another room.Maybe that’s why I want to remember the ordinary moments now.

Papa sitting quietly with his tea.Papa watching television without really watching it.Papa asking where I’m going even though I’ve already told him.

Papa pretending not to worry.Papa falling asleep on the sofa after a long day.None of these moments look extraordinary.But perhaps that’s what makes them precious.

Some kinds of love don’t announce themselves.They simply keep showing up.And maybe someday, when I look back at my childhood, I won’t remember every gift my 

father gave me.I’ll remember that he was there.Again and again.Quietly.Without asking to be thanked.